Apocalypse Redux
by gwennie3579
Summary: SPOILERS thru "Swan Song." Because just one Apocalypse is never enough. Dean/Cas, Sam/OMC, early Dean/Sam. THREESOME is up!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Well, I said I wasn't going to write this - absolutely-not-no-way-Jose-not-gonna-do-it - and now here I am with Chapter One. I'm such a losechester. Anywho, lots of warnings here. Spoilers abound for the entire series, all the way through the finale of S5. It will be rated M in later chapters for sexual content, including both Wincest and Dean/Cas pairings. For those who like to be surprised, I won't spoil by giving away the final pairing. But, for those who don't want to waste time reading a pairing they hate (and trust me, I totally understand that), just shoot me an email and I'll give you the lowdown. _

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own. Please don't sue. I have their best interests (getting laid, staying alive) at heart._

Lisa leaves him six months and fourteen days after he watches his brother throw himself into the pit. More accurately, she hands him his duffle and a card for the nearest rehab, tear-filled eyes hooded and resigned. Ben is spending the night with one of his soccer buddies, and Dean is desperate with the need to say goodbye, even though he knows this is probably all for the best.

He hugs Lisa hard, and she cries on his shoulder, and he can't help but think of the night he showed up on her doorstep, broken and beat down with a single phrase playing on endless repeat in his head: _Keep your promise, Dean. Keep your fucking promise._

He tells her he's sorry, and he is. She accepts the apology and then looks at him with such pity it's almost easy for him to beat a quick retreat out the door. He fumbles with the keys to the Impala, too drunk to drive, too embarrassed to ask to stay one more night. Instead, he drives slow, both hands on the wheel, creeping out of the cul-de-sac and onto the main road whispering prayers he knows no one will hear.

There's a bar on the corner of the county line road, and he pulls into the parking lot, resting his forehead against the steering wheel until the world stops spinning. He takes a long pull from the flask inside his jacket - the flask that used to hold his holy water, back when the world was ending - and winces at the burn.

Inside, he picks a fight with the first douche bag popped-collar college boy he comes across, and winds up with a fat lip and a possible civil suit for his trouble. The rush of adrenaline sobers him up enough to haul ass before the cops show, and he hightails it for the state line.

There's another bar, a rough-looking roadhouse situated a mile or so off the highway. Dean's been here once before, when he and Sam were passing through a few years back, and it's as good a place as any. There's a motel nearby, and while it ain't the Hilton, he figures it'll do well enough for a night or two.

He orders a beer and a shot of Jack, and though the bleach-blonde bartender gives him the stinkeye, she serves him quick enough when he pulls out a wad of cash. It's twenty minutes to last call, and Dean figures he can kill three, maybe four more beers and at least a couple more shots between now and then.

He's pulling out his wallet again when he sees a rustle of movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone sits down at the barstool next to him, and Dean thinks that's really kinda shitty, seeing as there isn't a single other person at the bar. Annoyed, Dean leans away from the stranger, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the lacquered wood grain of the bar.

"Two Buds, two shots of Jack," the man at the bar says, and Dean chances a quick sideways glance, catching his breath when he sees shaggy dark hair and a stupid Carhart jacket. He looks away, dizzy from the booze and the breakdown of his whole fucking life, and wonders if he'll be able to walk when he pushes himself off the barstool.

Before he can slide off the vinyl seat and skulk away into the night, the stranger beside him has shoved a shot glass and a beer in his direction.

"No thanks," he says roughly, noticing for the first time that his hands are clenched around the edge of the bar, fingers bloodless and white. "Cuttin' myself off, man."

There's a dark chuckle from the stranger, and Dean blinks slowly, trying to place the sound. It's familiar. Soothing, almost.

"Doesn't look like you've cut yourself off for a long time now," the stranger says.

"Yeah, well, I guess I'm ready to clean up my act."

"Are you, Dean?"

Dean whips his head around, sucking in a gasp as the room tilts and spins dangerously. He rights himself, bracing against the bar for balance, and finds himself looking into a pair of eyes that he knows even better than his own.

"Dean," Sam says, hand closing around Dean's, a worried look on his face.

"Great," Dean says with a laugh. "So on top of it all, I'm going fucking crazy, too."

"Dean, you aren't crazy -"

"No? I watched you, Sammy. I watched you throw yourself into hell and get sealed up in a brimstone locker for all eternity. So you're tellin' me that seeing you here now, sitting in a bar in Bumfuck Egypt, buyin' me a beer is not the _definition_ of fucking crazy?"

The man wearing Sam's face frowns, eyebrows knit together in concern. Dean almost laughs at the absurdity of it all, and then he starts to cry. He doesn't want to be crazy. He doesn't want to be a drunk, and he doesn't want to have to look at Sam's fucking face when he knows he can never have him back.

"Dean, hey. Hey, man, c'mon…"

Sam's arms are around him them, and goddamn it all , he feels so fuckin' real. Dean shudders and pushes the man away, scrubbing a hand over his eyes as though he might be able to wish away any glamour or illusion being worked on him.

"Go away," he says, but his voice is weak and his words slurred. He suddenly feels very tired, and all he wants is to sleep. Tomorrow, he thinks to himself. Tomorrow he'll check himself into that place on the card Lisa gave him. He'll talk to someone, a doctor or something, and he'll get himself straightened out.

He doesn't stop to think that he's in a bar in the middle of nowhere. He doesn't consider the fact that he's all alone in the world and he's slowly but surely losing his goddamn mind. He merely puts his head down on the bar, closes his eyes, and ignores the hand on his arm as the blackness rushes up to meet him.

*oOo*

"Morning, sunshine."

Dean sits bolt upright, then slaps a hand against his forehead, reeling as the headache seems to split his cranium in two. There's a ringing in his ears, and for one brief, hysterical moment, he wonders if there's an angel in the room with him.

Then he remembers the night before, the fight with Lisa, and the man who looked like Sam. A terrible weight sinks into the pit of his stomach, and he cracks open an eyelid, looking over at the chair in the corner.

Sam is sitting in it, plain as day, hair damp and clean, wearing a fruity button-down with a pink paisley pattern. Dean's mouth is open and a ready insult almost leaves his lips. Then he realizes he's officially gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, because he's mostly sober now and it's broad daylight and he still _sees Sam_.

"You wanna get cleaned up first, or do you wanna talk?" Sam asks, and Dean looks down, realizing for the first time he's in a motel bed, sheets tangled around his legs, his duffle resting beside him.

He looks up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How'd I get here?"

"I brought you. Wasn't exactly easy. You gained weight?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

Sam's half-smile slips. "You know who I am."

"Do I? Thought you were spending eternity working on your suntan by the lake of fire. So what, Lucifer? Hijacking my brother wasn't enough for you? Had to come back and rub it in my face?"

"Dean, that's not -"

"Isn't it? You said yourself that I'm not crazy. Way I figure it, if I've still got all my marbles, and you're really here, that means some demon dick busted you out of the big house, and you're hear to complete the Winchester set."

Sam looks down, fingers twisting in his lap in a way that is entirely too human for Dean's liking.

"It's not Lucifer, Dean. It's me." He looks up then, eyes wide and beseeching. "It's Sam."

Dean stares at him for a moment, swallowing down the little burst of hope that flames to life in his belly.

"No," he says firmly, clenching his jaw.

"I know it's hard to believe -"

"What? That my baby brother has been brought back to life for the second time? That you caged _Satan_ and they just let you walk?"

"It wasn't exactly like that…"

"What then? You save the planet and you get a heavenly redo?"

Sam shrugs. "Something like that, I guess."

Dean looks at him incredulously. "You really expect me to buy that load of crap?"

Sam's nostrils flare, and a little part of Dean wants to cry when he pulls out the bitchface.

"Look, Dean. All I can tell you is what I know, which isn't much. I fell down the rabbit hole and before I know it, I get yanked back out. I don't know who did it, or why. All I know is my body's back here on earth, and Lucifer is still locked up tight."

Dean sits back, shoulders relaxing a fraction, though he still doesn't dare let himself believe. "And Michael?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I don't know. Still in there with Lucifer, I guess. I didn't… I looked around for a while, thinking maybe they brought back Adam, too. But I didn't… I never found him."

"Why should I believe you?"

"I don't know, Dean. Look, I didn't expect you to come running into my arms or anything. I just… if you need to douse me in holy water, or start chanting Latin, rub me down with garlic… whatever you need to do to convince yourself I'm real and I'm really human, I don't care."

Dean gives him once last look before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"Bobby. Whatever you are, he needs to be in on this."

Dean glances up just in time to see the pained look flit across Sam's face.

"Dean, I - Lucifer… he killed Bobby."

Dean nods. "Yeah."

"And Cas."

"Yep."

"But then, how -"

"Guess Lucifer's no match for the big guy's mojo. He brought Cas back and then Cas healed Bobby."

Sam's eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead. "So then Cas -"

"Back in full-on angel mode," Dean confirms, pressing the speed dial. He listens to Bobby's voicemail, frowning as he clicks the off button. He stares at the phone a minute, wishing he still had a direct line to Castiel, when he hears a soft snuffling noise coming from the corner. He looks up, and his heart jumps into his throat. Sam - or whoever he is - is crying, huge wracking sobs that shake his entire body.

"Thank God," he whispers brokenly, swiping a hand over his eyes. "I thought I - I thought…"

"Don't get too excited yet there, princess. We might have stopped the apocalypse, but it isn't all sunshine and roses. We still haven't gotten Bobby's soul back from Crowley, and Cas has been AWOL for the last six months."

"Where -"

"Working his way up the corporate ladder, I guess. Whipping the heavenly host into shape. Who the fuck knows?" Dean looks away, the old anger over Castiel's disappearance resurging inside him. He's pushed it down these last couple months, almost managed to forget about it - at least on the good days - but now here it is, back and fiercer than ever.

"Dean," Sam says, and something in his tone catches Dean's attention. "How can I prove to you it's really me?"

Dean swallows past the burn in his throat, shrugging a shoulder in the careless way he's perfected after months of hiding his torment. "I don't think you can, man. Sam's gone. I watched it happen. So either I'm completely loony tunes, or you aren't what you seem to be."

"Those the only options?"

Dean snorts derisively. "What else is there?"

Sam reaches into the front pocket of his jacket and slowly pulls something out. Dean's heart slams against his chest, then seems to come to a complete stop. The room is dead silent, and Dean thinks it must be a trick, even though he's already up and moving across the room.

"How did you -?" he whispers, dropping to his knees in front of Sam, looking up at him in wonder and fear.

Sam smiles gently, sadly. "I picked it up out of the trash can. You were already out the door, and I couldn't let you just leave it." He dangles the amulet in front of Dean's face. It's a little tarnished, a little worse for wear maybe, but still the same as ever. A rush of memories tumbles through Dean's brain, and it's all he can do not to reach out and take it, reach out and touch Sam.

"I meant to give it to you… before…" Sam goes on. "But there was never a good time. And then there was no time at all. Worth it, though," he says with a small smile, "to be able to give it to you in person, now."

"Sam," Dean says in a strangled voice. "It can't -"

"It can," Sam says, dropping the amulet over Dean's head and straightening it against his chest. The touch sends a spark through Dean, even through his t-shirt, and before he knows what he's doing, his arms are around Sam's legs, his face pressed into Sam's lap, and he's crying out all the long months of horror and loneliness.

Sam's hand is in his hair, and he's muttering soothing nonsense as he leans his face down close to Dean's ear. They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, and Dean says a silent prayer of gratitude to whoever made it possible. Good or evil, he doesn't care, because he's got his Sammy back and finally, _finally_, the world is starting to make sense again.

He's jarred out of the moment by the loud ringing of his cell phone, and he crawls over to the bed, sniffling and embarrassed. It's Bobby. He holds the phone up and points to the caller ID.

Sam nods. "Answer it," he says. "We've got a lot to talk about."


	2. Chapter 2

-1**A/N: **_A little shorter this time, but we're beginning to get into the plot, and to the Wincest. Cas will be showing up soon, and the plot will be more apparent once he arrives. Oh, and I forgot to mention last time - but there will be a threesome in this fic, on down the road. It'll be my first time writing one, so… uh… be gentle. Also, my sincerest thanks to __**DiTab1**__. I haven't had a chance to send an email to you, but I so appreciate your reviews! They certainly bring a smile to my day, so this chapter is for you!_

**Disclaimer: **_Still not mine. And yeah, I'm still pissed about that._

Bobby greets Sam with a jug of holy water, a crucifix and Ruby's knife. Dean winces when Bobby cuts a clean slice in Sam's arm, but Sam barely even flinches, smiling when Bobby looks up at him with something like wonder dawning in his eyes. Bobby steps back and allows Sam through the door, watching him - very appropriately - like he's the walking dead.

Dean moves to follow, and Bobby gives him a sharp slap to the back of the head.

"Hey!" he says, lifting a hand to the tender flesh and giving Bobby a glare. "What the hell, Bobby?"

"Don't give me that Mr. Innocent crap," Bobby hisses, leaning in close to Dean's ear. "You _idjit_. Did it ever occur to you that even if Sam's not Lucifer's meat suit anymore, it may still not be _Sam _in there?"

Dean's eyes narrow. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean," Bobby snarls, "that death changes a man. _Hell _changes a man. If anyone oughtta know that, it's you."

Dean shakes his head, pushing away from Bobby and stomping through the door. He knew, he just _knew _from the moment Sam pulled out that amulet that he was the real deal, and nothing Bobby says is going to make him doubt that.

Sam is in the kitchen, pulling a few beers out of the fridge, and Dean gives him a quick glance before turning back to Bobby.

"Listen to me," he says, low and deadly serious. "You don't say one word to make him think we don't trust him. Not _one word_, you hear me? I'm not a moron, Bobby. I got my eye on him. If there's something in there that isn't one hundred percent Sammy, I'll be the first to know it."

"Yeah, but will you be able to do anything about it?" Bobby asks, and something in his tone has gentled.

Dean looks away, not liking the implications of that statement, and watches Sam search for a bottle opener out of the corner of his eye.

"Anybody has to take Sam down again, it's gonna be me," he says roughly. Bobby gives him a terse nod and moves into the kitchen, slapping Sam genially on the shoulder.

"We seem to be havin' way too many of these back-from-the-dead reunions, boy."

Sam grins, and Dean feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Bobby's face is shadowed, but Dean can tell the hope in his eyes is real. He's troubled, Dean can tell, but he's ready to believe that maybe, just maybe, something is gonna go their way.

Bobby orders them a pizza, and Dean makes fun of Sam when he blots away the grease with a paper towel. It feels so good he nearly starts crying again. Sam gives him a knowing look, his own eyes suspiciously shiny, and Dean clears his throat and looks quickly away.

Bobby puts them up in the spare room that night, handing Sam a stack of clean sheets and a blanket. Dean makes to follow him into the room, but Bobby yanks him back, tipping his head toward the end of the hallway and tugging Dean along with him.

"Listen, I know you wanna believe he's the real deal, Dean, but the fact is, we just ain't sure yet. I want you to promise me you're gonna be on your toes for a while."

Dean sighs, knowing Bobby has every right to be worried, but resenting him for it anyway.

"Yeah, Bobby, I promise. I'll keep an eye on him. But just… I just wanna sleep right now, okay?"

Bobby nods, then pulls Ruby's knife out of the waistband of his jeans. "Here. Just in case."

"Bobby -" Dean begins, a warning tone in his voice.

"Better safe than sorry, boy. You know that better'n anyone." Bobby leans in closer, putting a firm hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing hard. "Lord knows I had as hard a time as any losin' him the first time. And if he's really back for good, then I'll get down on my knees and thank God and the angels and anyone else who had a hand in it. But until then, until we know, I can't take the thought of seein' you get hurt, too."

Dean swallows hard, then nods, patting Bobby's arm reassuringly. He's not good with this emotional stuff, never has been, but he hopes to God Bobby has at least some inkling of what he means to him, and to Sam. He takes the knife by the hilt and hands it back to Bobby, willing him to understand. Bobby frowns, but he pulls the hilt from Dean's grasp and walks down the hallway, shaking his head and tucking the knife back into its sheath.

The bed is made and the covers turned down when Dean steps into the spare room, shutting the door behind him and sagging against it in relief. Sam looks up from the little window seat, hand bunched in the curtain sheers, eyebrows pulled down in a worried expression.

"You okay?" he asks, and Dean nods, moving over to the bed, lowering his hand to unbutton his jeans. He glances down at the bed and then back over at Sam, who's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"You want me to sleep here?" he asks, and Dean laughs.

"Dude, really?" He eyes the thin cushion on the window seat skeptically. "Think you could actually fit on that thing, Sasquatch?"

Sam smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Probably not," he says quietly. "But I could take the couch downstairs if it… if that's better."

Dean can't stand to see the uncertainty in Sam's gaze, so he focuses all his attention on slowly and methodically unbuttoning his shirt, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the mattress.

"Been a long time since we shared a bed," Sam says, that same low, tentative tone in his voice. "We were, what? Teenagers?"

Dean smirks and answers immediately. "You were sixteen and I was twenty. We'd been bitching about it for years, remember?"

Sam laughs, and it sounds almost genuine. "Yeah. And that summer I finally had a growth spurt -"

"And your freaky Ginormo legs were so long you kept kicking me out of bed."

"And Dad made _you _sleep in the rollaway," Sam adds with a chuckle. Dean's heart swells at the sound, and he shakes his head, grinning until he's sure his face will be sore in the morning.

"C'mon, freakazoid, get in the bed."

"Dean, are you -"

"Get in the damn bed, Sam. Try and get some sleep. You're a whiny bitch when you're tired."

Sam is up and across the room before Dean finishes speaking, ignoring the insult as he tugs off his jeans and pulls his hoodie over his head.

Dean slides into the bed at the same moment Sam does, reaching over to shut off the light and turn the alarm clock away so he can't see the time. He rolls onto his stomach and turns his face toward Sam, who's stretched out on his back under the covers. Even in the darkness, Dean can tell his eyes are open, and he's staring at the ceiling as if it holds the answers to all life's questions.

Slowly, Dean lets his hand creep up between them, until the side of his pinkie is just brushing Sam's shoulder. He holds his breath for a long moment, then lets it out in a relieved whoosh when Sam relaxes minutely. There's a rustle beneath the sheets, and then Sam's fingers are splayed on his hip, warmth seeping through Dean's boxers.

"Sam," he says, voice thick and rusty, as if he hasn't spoken in months. It reminds him of the way he sounded after he clawed his way out of his coffin, learning how to speak, how to scream and laugh and sigh after being dead for months.

And in a way, it's a perfect comparison, because what has he been all these long months if not dead again? He's a husk, he knows. Withered and shrunken and so fucking empty on the inside, filling the void with liquor and Lisa and a family that was never really his.

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam prompts gently, when Dean doesn't speak. The fingertips on his hips press down a little harder, Sam's thumb rubbing a circle against his skin where his shorts have ridden up his thigh a little.

"Just, uh…" Dean begins, distracted and scared and confused and utterly, blissfully _happy. _"Just… goodnight."

He can almost hear Sam smile in the darkness. "'Night, Dean."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **_And we've officially moved into the Wincest portion of our tale! Even if it's not entirely your cup of tea, I hope you'll stick with the story. We get some bromance of the sexual variety for a while, which is why I upped the rating to M, but there are definitely other elements (not to mention another pairing) in the story. Reviews are so appreciated… and now that I have for-real super-speedy interweb at home, I'm hoping to be posting more frequently!_

**Disclaimer: **_You know what I'm gonna say, and you know that I hate to say it. Not mine. Never will be. Yet another thing that keeps me up at night._

Dean wakes up to an empty bed and a raging hard-on. The last fleeting tendrils of a dream he's had countless times before dissolve in his mind as he blinks himself to consciousness. He looks around frantically, half-afraid to call out for Sam, half-afraid he'll wake up again to find himself slumped on a barstool in a no-name town with nothing but a hangover and the hazy memory of what it feels like to be happy.

He sits up slowly, a growing feeling of dread unfurling low in his belly. The house is quiet but for a few soft groans and creaks as it settles, and if he listens hard, he thinks he can just make out the sound of footsteps as Bobby putters around in the kitchen downstairs.

He's so focused on trying to pick out another pair of footsteps, a rhythm he knows better than the beating of his own heart, that he almost misses the soft tattoo of water against porcelain coming from the bathroom down the hall.

His heart leaps into his throat, and he tosses off the covers, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor with an echoing thud as he launches himself toward the door. He doesn't stop to worry about whether Sam will mind him barging in on his private time, nor does he worry about the obvious tent in the front of his shorts. He needs to see Sam _now_, needs to remind himself that he's really here, whole and pristine and perfect.

He skids into the bathroom, feet sliding against the tile as he nearly goes sailing ass over elbows through the shower curtain. Sam is frozen in surprise in front of the toilet, hands stilled on the waistband of his boxers as he watches Dean breathing raggedly, bent over with his hands pressed into his thighs.

Sam cocks his head, a confused half-smile on his lips. "_Dean_?" he says, drawing out the name in that patronizing way he does when Dean says something that amuses him.

It's so familiar, so easy, and Dean has to touch him, has to feel the blood rushing under his skin, feel the way his chest expands when he takes a breath. He's moving forward without even thinking about, stalking toward his brother, backing him into the narrow space between the sink and the bathtub.

The shower's on full-blast, turned all the way to hot the way Sam likes it, and the mirror is already covered in an opaque white layer of steam. Dean's hands go on either side of Sam's head, slippery against the tile that extends just beyond the shower wall. Sam's eyes are wide, and when his gaze slips down below Dean's waist, they go even wider.

"Dean," he says again, and there's something hushed, something reverent in it.

It breaks Dean. It tears him down and pulverizes him into a million pieces, and suddenly he knows there's only one thing that can put him back together.

He's scared to death, desperate and aching when he pulls Sam's head down toward his own and crushes their lips together. He swallows the startled gasp Sam makes against his mouth, licking and biting and shoving himself up against Sam until not a sigh, not a breath can get between them.

It takes him a moment to realize Sam is kissing him back.

**oOo**

It takes Sam a moment to wrap his brain around the fact that Dean is kissinghim. There's some sort of delay between his head and the rest of his body, and he's responding before he even knows what he's doing, hands on Dean's hips and one thigh pressed between Dean's legs.

It scares him, what's happening, not because he doesn't want it, but because he never imagined Dean _would_. There's something frantic about it, and he can taste the desperation and fear on Dean's lips.

It's always been between them, this thing, bubbling just under the surface since long before either of them could put a name or even a concrete feeling to it. They never once gave in to it, not in all those years, and now Sam knows why.

It's too much. The feelings are too raw, too reckless. They burn and sting and leave him feeling like he's suffocating, like he's dying all over again. He's crawling out of his skin, panting and wild, and Dean is clinging to him like there's nothing else keeping him alive, keeping him together.

Dean needs this, Sam knows. Needs to be reassured that he's really here, really back, and that he isn't going to disappear or die or turn into someone else. Hell, if he's honest, he needs it too, probably every bit as much or more than Dean.

He lets Dean fuck him up against the tile, forehead pressed against cool ceramic while Dean burns like fire against his back. It's hard and it hurts and Dean is anything but gentle, and for that he's grateful. He wants it to hurt, wants it to leave a mark so he'll always remember.

The desperation is gone as soon as Dean comes, and he brings Sam off with slow, unhurried motions that nearly make Sam lose his mind. Afterward, he pushes Dean toward the shower and they step inside, shivering in the now lukewarm water. Dean kisses him under the spray, and Sam feels so safe he could cry.

They dry each other off, barely speaking, hardly even looking at each other, but their hands and their touches communicate more than any words or glances ever could.

Downstairs, Bobby is on his third cup of coffee, and he scowls when the two of them walk in and sit down, boneless and numb, at the kitchen table.

"Think you took long enough in the shower, princess?" Bobby says, giving Sam a glare. Sam waves it off, but he can feel his cheeks go warm. He resolutely does _not _meet Dean's eyes, barely glancing up when his brother hands him a steaming mug.

Bobby's gaze flickers over to Dean, and he frowns, gesturing at his damp hair. "How'd you manage to squeeze one in?" he asks. "Wanda here was up at the crack of dawn hijacking the hot water."

Dean shrugs, and Sam allows his eyes to roam over the strong line of his shoulders for the briefest of moments before looking back at Bobby, schooling his face into a picture of innocence.

"Used to taking cold showers, I guess," Dean says, and Sam shivers a little at the rough, fucked out huskiness in his voice.

Bobby continues scowling, but he drops the interrogation and finishes his coffee in silence. Sam sips at his tea, struck by the fact that Dean remembers he prefers it to coffee, and knows just the right ratio of sugar to cream. It touches something deep inside him, and he feels a raw burn start at the back of his throat.

They sit in silence for a long while, and Sam feels pleasantly content, mind wandering aimlessly as he watches the late summer sunlight slant through the window and creep slowly across the linoleum. He doesn't look at Dean, but he can feel him, close beside him, warm and solid. He knows he probably ought to be freaking out right now, but he can't help thinking it was something that had to happen, inevitable like the tide or the ticking of the clock. He's sure it'll hit him later, and Dean too, and while he worries about the fallout, he's determined to deal with it when it comes, and enjoy the knowledge that for the first time in he doesn't even know how long, he was able to give Dean exactly what he needed.

After a while, Bobby puts his mug down on the table with a muffled thud that wrenches Sam from his thoughts. He looks up, startled, and finds Dean watching him closely out of the corner of his eye.

"Well," Bobby says, standing up and scratching the back of his neck, "you ladies gonna sit here all day and braid each other's hair, or are we gonna get to work?"

"Get to work on what?" Dean asks, and Sam feels a pang inside his chest. He knows how bad Dean wants this to be easy, wants to relax and enjoy the gift they've been given without worrying too much about where it came from. He also knows Bobby isn't going to have it.

He's right.

"Idjit," Bobby grumbles under his breath. "You think Sam just comes back to life, back from _hell_, and it don't mean nothin'? Didn't I teach you better than that, boy?"

"Bobby, we don't have a single lead," Dean says, and Sam can see his hackles rising. "Can't we just let it be? Just for a day?"

"Dean, I know you -"

"A fucking _day, _Bobby. Jesus."

Sam stares down at the table, wishing he didn't have to be in the middle of this fight, even if it is about him. The tension between Bobby and Dean is close to boiling over, and Sam can feel the warning crackle of electricity in the air. He gets what Dean is saying; they've been apart for six months and he'd by lying if he said he didn't want to start making up for it right _now_. But he also sees Bobby's perspective. There's no doubt his miraculous resurrection is less miracle and more strategy, and he wants to know why.

"Dean," he says, putting a hand on his brother's arm and squeezing gently. "We're tired and overwhelmed. We're gonna be sitting around all day anyway; we might as well start looking through some of Bobby's books, try to find an omen or sign somewhere that might give us a clue."

Dean's jaw clenches, but eventually he nods. He pulls his arm out from under Sam's hand, but he brushes a light touch against his shoulder when he gets up to go into the living room. Bobby's already sorting through ancient texts, pulling them out and blowing dust off the spines one by one. Sam follows Dean into the room and settles himself into his favorite armchair, closing his eyes briefly and smiling at the familiarity of it all.

Three hours later, none of them have moved. Sam can hear Dean's stomach growling and he's just getting ready to suggest lunch when Bobby slams his hand down on the desk, causing him to jump.

"What is it?" Dean asks gruffly, tossing his own book aside and moving to stand behind Bobby's shoulder.

"Brace yourselves, boys," Bobby says, looking up grimly. "I think I found something. And you ain't gonna like it."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **_More sexy funtime with Sam and Dean! Also more angst and more plot, so yeah, there's a story here. Or at least some semblance of one (yeah, that's how I get to sleep at night… don't judge). If you like the story, I hope you'll take a moment to let me know. I know it's a hard sell, what with the double pairing and all, but stick with it! There are rewards to be reaped (I think, anyway)!_

**Disclaimer: **_I don't own the boys, but I do own the book Bobby's reading from. Okay, not literally. But I did make it up, all in my own head. So there._

"So, is this some sort of Bible thing again?" Dean says, tapping a pencil against Bobby's desk and peering over his shoulder.

Bobby shakes his head. "Not exactly. Near as I can tell, this comes from around the same time, but the texts were never admitted into the canon."

"Canon?" Dean asks, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing over at Sam.

"King James Version," he says.

"And every other version since then," Bobby adds.

Dean frowns. "So it's like, what? The Apocrypha or something?" Sam's eyebrows are practically above his hairline, and Dean rolls his eyes. He _does _read, on occasion.

"Something like that," Bobby confirms. "But more obscure. This is like, the Apocrypha to the Apocrypha."

"So what's it mean for us, now?" Sam asks, leaning over and putting his palms flat on the desk. Dean is distracted for a moment by how big Sam's hands are, tan and thin with broad, flat knuckles. He remembers those hands, curved around his hips earlier that morning, and he feels something between shame and lust flare in his belly.

"Dean?" Sam says, and he realizes he's completely zoned out of the conversation.

"Yeah," he says gruffly, then coughs, covering the bottom half of his flushed face with his hand, refusing to meet Sam's gaze. Bobby glances up at him for a moment, but quickly turns his attention back to his book. He shakes his head and tells himself to stay in the game.

"What're we looking at here, Bobby?" he asks, not entirely certain he wants to know.

"Well, it ain't easy to decipher," Bobby begins, flipping to a page imprinted with a particularly gruesome etching of a demon ripping the limbs off a human woman, her eyes wide in horror, mouth open in a soundless scream. In the background, angels with unfurled wings are taking part in the slaughter, swords drawn against both demons and humans. Dean blinks and looks away, feeling slightly sickened.

"I can't be sure, but it seems like this here's a roadmap to Apocalypse Part Two," Bobby says, voice grim.

Sam shakes his head. "How's that even possible, Bobby? Lucifer's still locked up, as far as we know, and Michael, too. What's left to fight over?"

Bobby frowns, and his eyes go dark and sad. "Can't believe I didn't even think to look at this before," he mutters, almost to himself.

"_What_, Bobby?" Dean asks, wishing he'd just cut to the chase already. He has no more patience for all this talk of apocalypse and holy war. He wants Bobby to give him something to kill, put a gun in his hand and point him toward the target.

"It's not that easy," Bobby says, as if reading his mind. "What happened, Lucifer and Michael and all the rest of it, that was just phase one. If this is right," he says, fingertips brushing the tattered edges of the pages, "then we are fast approaching phase two."

"Phase two?" Sam says, and Dean feels his stomach drop. It isn't over. Lucifer's gone and he's got Sam back and that sure as shit makes everything worth it, but _it isn't over_. He feels nauseous, and he thinks of Lisa, has a brief flash of memory, of her making him hot tea on that first night, after Sam. He hates tea, always made fun of Sam for drinking it, but he drank it then, holding the mug close to his chest even though it burned his hands, telling himself that for just that one minute, maybe he was gonna survive this.

And he had, but only because Sam had survived too, even if he didn't know that at the time. But now… now, if they have to start all over again, pick up the pieces and march back into war…

The same familiar feeling of exhaustion, of being too tired to care about a goddamn thing, washes over him, so strong his knees nearly buckle with it. He chances a glance over at Sam's face, and he can see the weariness and fear reflected in his brother's eyes. He looks down and can see it in the hunch of Bobby's shoulders.

They aren't ready for this. They aren't ready to do it all over again. They _can't_. Physically, emotionally… they're tapped. Dean knows this, but he also knows that he'll do whatever it takes to keep Sam here, keep him whole, even if it means fighting the whole damn world.

"So which one of Hell's bitches is comin' after us this time?" he asks, voice a little bitter, but determined.

Bobby shakes his head. "It ain't just Hell this time, boy. And they ain't comin' for us."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks, casting an uneasy look over at Dean.

"They got bigger fish to fry."

"Who's _they_?" Dean asks.

"The demons," Bobby answers. "And the angels. All of 'em."

"What?"

"It's gonna be a war this earth ain't never seen before. Heaven and Hell are both in revolt, and they're all pissed as hell about what happened with Lucifer and Michael." Bobby closes the book, and Dean can see his hand is trembling.

"So?" he says, throwing up his familiar old bravado. "More power to 'em, right? They kill off each other, makes our jobs a hell of a lot easier."

"Yeah, but last time you might recall the angels tried to protect the earth, demons too. They each wanted to make it their own personal playground."

"Yeah, it was gonna be like Disneyland all the time," Dean says, waving a hand dismissively. "So?"

"So this time, they don't give a giant flyin' crap about the earth, or the people on it," Bobby says. "This time, they're bent on destroying the other side, casualties be damned."

"Casualties meaning…" Sam trails off, and Dean can sense his resigned fear.

"The earth," Bobby says. "The whole human race. Hell, the whole damned galaxy, if they get the notion."

Dean is having a hard time thinking up a snappy comeback to _that_, and so he stands there, struck dumb by what Bobby is saying, racking his brain to come up with something, _anything _that might sound remotely like a solution or a plan of action.

"Well, fuck," is what he comes out with instead, and really, what more do they expect out of him? But neither Bobby or Sam even flinch, and Dean can see from the set of their shoulders that they're both mentally echoing his sentiment.

"Wait," Sam says, after a minute, and Dean hates the surge of hope that bubbles up inside him. "How do we know this text is even the real deal? Are there signs or omens we should be looking for? And what about me? I'm not at risk of becoming Lucifer's vessel anymore, so why would either side bring me back?"

_What he said_, Dean thinks, but he doesn't say it.

Bobby shakes his head and taps the book's leather cover. "It's prophecy," he says slowly, and it takes a minute for that to sink in. "Signed, sealed and delivered from this guy's lips to God's ears."

"I am gonna kill Chuck _so _hard," Dean growls, curling his hands into fists.

"This ain't Chuck we're dealing with, boy. This is ancient - written before he was even a twinkle in God's eye."

"So then where did this come from?" Sam asks, shifting his hip to lean against the desk. "Who's the prophet?"

"Guy by the name of Matthias," Bobby says. "Lived around the time of John the Baptist, close as I can tell. According to some other ancient scrolls, he mysteriously vanished, supposedly taken up to Heaven to live with the angels."

"And if he was a prophet, he would've had an archangel looking out for him," Sam says, and Dean thinks he can see the start of an idea forming behind his eyes.

"An immortal angel," Bobby says, and Sam nods.

"Exactly. And if we can track him down…" He leaves the sentence hanging, and Dean feels that sinking sensation in his stomach again. More fucking angels. He looks up and realizes both Sam and Bobby are staring at him expectantly.

"What?" he snaps. "My direct line to heaven's been disconnected, remember? I don't have Cas on speed dial anymore." It stings, even to say it, and he feels that old familiar pang in his chest.

Sam's eyes go all liquid and understanding, and Dean looks steadfastly away from the pity he sees there.

"He's come before," he says, voice low and gentle. "When you've asked. Maybe if you try it again, maybe if you… pray… he'll come."

Dean huffs out a disbelieving laugh, already adamantly shaking his head. "Not gonna happen, Sammy. Cas left of his own free will. And we gave it to him, remember?"

"Dean -"

"I said _no_, Sam."

Sam's mouth flattens into a thin line, but he says nothing. Dean has a sinking suspicion this isn't the last he's heard about it, though, not if he knows Sam and his damned pestering.

"Well," Bobby says, pushing himself wearily up from the desk, looking as if he's aged twenty years in twenty minutes, "I got a few favors to call in. I'll head over to Mission Ridge - I know a guy there may have some artifacts, more books."

"We need fucking swords," Dean mutters, "not books."

Bobby lets the comment slide, and he's out the door without so much as a goodbye. Dean goes over to one of the chairs and slumps down in it, scrubbing a hand over his face. He doesn't look up until he feels Sam's presence towering above him.

"Dean," Sam begins, but before he can get any further, Dean's fingers are hooked in his belt loops and he's yanking him forward into the triangle of his open legs.

The inside of Dean's thighs are pressed against Sam's knees, and even with Dean slouched back in the chair, he's practically at eye-level with Sam's crotch. Sam's suddenly very _interested_ crotch.

His hands are undoing Sam's fly then, and without even thinking much about it, he's leaning forward, pressing his face against the denim and breathing in Sam's scent.

"Are you… are you just doing this to shut me up?" Sam says, with a desperate sort of laugh, and yeah, Dean thinks, he probably kind of is, but then he's got Sam's zipper down, and the whys suddenly don't seem to matter so much anymore.

Dean takes a moment to look at Sam then, really look at him, and it takes his breath away all over again, to see him alive and real and really there. He's also hard as a rock and fucking beautiful, and Dean thinks maybe he might mention this, but probably he won't. He's never really thought too much about his sexuality because he's never really had to. He loves women. He loves their curves and their softness and the way they sound. But he also loves Sam's strength and hard lines and _fuck_, does it really even matter, because Sam is right there and Dean wants this and when did he start analyzing shit like a 12-year-old girl, anyway?

Sam makes an impatient noise above him, and that's enough to get Dean moving. His hands drift to Sam's hips, pulling him closer, his breath ghosting over Sam's cock.

"Jesus, Dean," he breathes, jerking forward. Dean smiles, lets his mouth brush butterfly-wing soft against the tip, then raises his eyes to Sam's.

Sam is watching him hungrily, need and passion making his go bright and nearly-green, the way they did when he was a kid and he had a fever.

Dean doesn't know why any of this is happening, or what it will mean for the two of them on down the road, but he knows they need this now, and he for one is pretty damn glad he and Sam seem to be on the same page about that.

Sam's hands are on top of his then, squeezing hard in a silent plea, and Dean nods to himself, already knowing he'll do anything Sam asks. He takes him in his mouth slowly, inch by inch, getting accustomed to the feel and the taste of him and the weight of him against his tongue, and Sam pants raggedly above him. Dean can feel the tension coming off him in waves, as he tries to keep himself from thrusting forward.

He presses his fingertips into Sam's hips, telling him without words that it's okay to let go, and he begins to move. He goes slowly at first, taking it easy as he masters the basic up and down motion. Sam is twitching and making soft, stifled whimpering noises that are driving Dean fucking _insane_.

He lets Sam slip out of his mouth, pulling back a few centimeters to let his tongue explore. Sam's breath hitches when he licks up the underside, one hand coming up to grab the base in a firm grip.

Sam groans, gruff and loud, and Dean swallows him down all at once, his free hand drifting down from Sam's hip to rub the front of his jeans. He fumbles with the button and then the zipper, aching against the constraining fabric. He stops focusing on what his mouth is doing, and when it stills, Sam pushes forward, hard and demanding.

Finally, Dean has his cock free from his boxers and he pushes into his hand with quick, erratic thrusts, slick with precome and painfully hard. He sucks Sam down as far as he can, trying to keep time with his own pumping motions, but his rhythm is irregular and unsteady.

Sam doesn't seem to mind, though. He leans forward, arching over Dean, gripping the back of the chair and letting his head drop forward between his shoulder. Sweat drips off his forehead, and Dean can feel it hit his neck, sliding down to pool in the hollow of his collarbone. There's something intensely _hot _about that, and he groans around Sam's cock, thrilling at Sam's answering gasp.

He speeds up, and before long Sam is clamping a warning hand over his shoulder, squeezing so hard Dean is sure there'll be bruises. He makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, hoping Sam knows that means it's okay to let himself go. He must get the message, because seconds later he is jerking and coming down Dean's throat, the hand on his shoulder tightening painfully as he goes rigid for a moment before slumping down in a heap.

Dean's arms go up around him as he sinks to his knees, cradling him still in the vee of his legs. Sam rests his forehead on Dean's thigh, breathing as if he's just run a marathon, and Dean runs a soothing hand up and down his back.

Finally, Sam sits back on his heels, looking at Dean with the same combination of love and respect and awe in his eyes that he's had since he was a kid. Dean feels almost shy, and he looks away, suddenly exposed and naked in more than just the obvious way.

But then Sam's hand is on his cock, and Dean can't spare a thought for his _feelings_ anymore, because what Sam is doing to him, it's… well, it's practically _criminal_, and Dean can't see straight, let alone think straight anymore.

Sam's movements are fast and firm and assured, and if Dean had the presence of mind to form a coherent thought, he'd wonder if Sam's done this before. But then Sam twists his wrist in that way, that secret way that Dean thought was just his, thought he must have discovered the way Columbus discovered America, but then again, Columbus didn't actually discover America, so it really was a pretty accurate comparison and - holy _fuck _why is he still _thinking_?

He gasps when Sam twists again, hips coming up out of the chair as spots dance in front of his eyes, and he's coming all over Sam's chest, and goddamnit, he's thinking that they'd better do laundry before Bobby gets back.

He leans forward as he comes down, forehead pressed into Sam's shoulder, and finally, _finally_ the frantic buzzing in his head stops. He wonders for a moment if it's not really about the sex at all, if it's really about _this_, this peace he feels wrapped up against Sam, feeling him warm and solid under his cheek, feeling his heart galloping in his chest as their breath syncs and they drift together in a blissed-out haze.

Eventually, Dean realizes that Mission Ridge is only a twenty minute drive, and Bobby could actually come strolling in at any moment. He pulls away from Sam reluctantly, sticky-sated and too warm. Sam brushes a messy, open-mouthed kiss against his jaw, then pulls himself to his feet, reaching out a hand to haul Dean up. They tuck themselves in, then take turns in the shower.

Dean lets Sam go first, and when he hears the water start up, he walks out to the porch, leaning against the railing and soaking in the cool breeze. It smells like autumn, like leaves and fire and something spicy-sweet, and Dean thinks that summer won't be with them much longer.

He looks up at the sky, tinted pink at the edge of the horizon, and he sighs bone-deep, still feeling somehow empty, even with Sam back to fill in the void.

"Alright, then," he says, eyes cast upward. "You win. Okay? You fucking win. Just… just come back. We need help, Cas." Dean pauses, swallows over the lump that's risen in his throat. "Sam's back. He's back, and things are bad, maybe worse than before, and… I can't lose him, Cas. I can't lose him again. I lost… too much, before. So if you can help us, if you can… if you even give a damn…"

Dean closes his eyes, feeling the hot burn as tears build up behind his eyelids.

"Please," he whispers, clenching his hands into fists at his sides, and conjuring up an image of Cas in his mind, all messy dark hair and boring rumpled clothes, a stupidly clueless expression on his face. This only makes the tears come faster, and he blinks his eyes open, the image dissolving and fading from his mind.

He takes a deep breath and gives one long, last look at the sky before turning and pulling open the front door.

There's an angel standing in the foyer.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **_I'm going to go ahead and say this now - don't get too used to these super-frequent updates. I don't know what kind of a roll I'm on, but trust me, it doesn't happen often! Still, I'm going to ride the wave while it lasts, and pray the muses will continue to smile. Lotsa Cas in this chapter, and we're starting already to see the love triangle forming. No action here, but we'll get to plenty more of that in time. Hope you're enjoying!_

**Disclaimer: **_The boys, tragically, are not mine. I don't even have an awesome trench coat like Cas, or a funky amulet like Dean. Translation: don't bother suing, because I'm not likely to have anything you want._

"Cas," Dean says, and he can't quite get the breath in his lungs to make it come out angry.

The angel turns slowly, and a wave of absolute relief crashes into Dean when he sees the familiar wide eyes and scruffy jaw.

"They let you keep your body," he says, and they are absolutely _not _the words he'd intended to come out of his mouth. Cas cocks his head, completely still otherwise and totally silent. "Uh…" Dean says, looking awkwardly at the floor and fumbling with the hem of his shirt. "What're you, uh…"

"You called me," Cas says, his voice gruff and low and sweeter than anything to Dean's ears.

"Yeah. I, uh… I guess you already know why."

Cas gives him a perfunctory nod and then gazes up at the ceiling, trench coat fluttering a little at the edges in an invisible breeze. Dean can't help but notice there's very little that's still human about him, other than the body. There's something unearthly, alien about the way he holds himself, so still and unmoving, like a statue.

There's power, too. Dean can feel it, arcing and crackling in the air around them, sizzling like electricity out of a live wire. It scares him a little, and awes him a lot. He finds himself wondering again if Cas could actually _be _God, because that's just how he imagines the big guy to be, except maybe minus the unkempt and unshaven "office cowboy" look he's got going on.

Dean finally cottons on to the fact that he's looking Cas over like a piece of pie in a diner display case, and he tears his gaze away, flushing furiously. When he finally gets up the nerve to look back, Cas is suddenly standing close in that obnoxious way he has of moving without moving, of being in Dean's personal space without giving fair warning.

He's so close he has to tip his head back to look up into Dean's face, and though his face is blank and composed, Dean thinks he sees a flash of something in those ridiculously large blue eyes.

Cas's nose wrinkles ever so slightly, and he leans back, putting a few more centimeters of space between them.

"You reek of sex," he says distastefully, and Dean feels hot all the way to his toes.

He's racking his brain for an excuse or a plausible story, and is half considering feigning a heart attack… _anything _to stop this conversation in its tracks, when Sam appears on the landing at the top of the stairs, face covered as he towels off his damp hair. He stops abruptly when he sees Cas, a wide smile stretching his features, and he bounds down the last few stairs, clapping the angel on the shoulder and giving him a little shake.

"Cas, man, is it good to see you!" he says, grinning, and Cas gives him that same terse little nod. Sam's smile fades a little, and he raises an eyebrow in Dean's general direction, but he says nothing. Dean sees Cas lean in the tiniest bit, and his stomach twists into a painful knot when the angel takes an almost dainty sniff.

Eyes narrowing, Cas looks Sam up and down, then looks back at Dean. There's knowledge in his gaze, horrible and certain, and Dean can't seem to tear his eyes away.

But Cas doesn't say anything. He merely turns and walks stiffly into the living room, coat flapping behind him.

"Dude, what the…?" Sam mutters at him when they follow behind him, and Dean gives him an uncomfortable shrug.

"Angels," he says, by way of explanation, and Sam gives him an understanding nod.

"There's going to be another war," Cas says without preamble, turning to face them with his hands clasped behind his back.

_Just like a good little soldier, _Dean thinks with his usual bitterness, and yes, there's the anger he's been wanting to feel, to pull around him like a familiar old blanket. He wraps himself up in it and glares hard at Castiel, daring the angel silently to just _try_ pushing his buttons.

"We know," Sam says, leaning up against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. "Or at least, we think we know. Cas, what's going on here?"

"The angels are readying themselves for battle with the demons. _All _the demons," he says significantly.

"Yeah, so?" Dean says, knowing he sounds childish, and absolutely not caring. "We've fought plenty of demons before."

"You've fought dozens of them," Cas says, turning his gaze on Dean and frowning. Dean shivers, then forces his shoulders straight, tipping his chin up petulantly. "Maybe even hundreds, when Sam opened the gate. But Dean," he says, and Dean shivers again, this time for an entirely different reason, "you've never fought this many before. Not at full strength, not all at once."

"How many we talkin'?" Dean asks, swinging into strategy mode, all the anger draining away as the gears in his brain start turning.

Cas shrugs one shoulder, and the gesture looks odd, unfamiliar on him.

"Thousands," he says, and his voice gravelly but almost nonchalant. "Hundreds of thousands. Maybe even millions."

Dean suddenly wishes he'd been the one with the bright idea to lean against the desk, because he's pretty certain his legs are going to give out. He looks over at Sam, and he's totally dumbstruck, mouth slack and eyes round and comically huge.

"How do we -" Sam begins, but Cas cuts him off quickly.

"We don't. _You _don't. There's nothing you can do about this, Sam. Neither of you can stop it."

"But we -"

"You were brought for one reason, Sam, and one reason only."

Dean's eyes snap back up at this, and he holds his breath. He can tell from Sam's rigid posture and eerie silence that he's doing the same.

"What is it?" Dean says finally, at the same exact moment Sam says, "Who brought me back?"

"The angels were the ones who dragged you from the pit," he says, strangely formal and almost uncomfortable.

"Who?" Sam breathes, barely above a whisper. "Was it you?"

Dean thinks Cas would laugh, but he's not sure the angel is even capable of such a human emotion anymore.

"No, Sam Winchester, it wasn't me. We angels do not get an unlimited pass to Hell. I wore out my welcome there when I raised your brother." He lifts his eyes to Dean's then, and something passes between them, a moment that shimmers and is gone before Dean can even think to recognize it.

"Then who?" Sam says, sounding more like himself.

Cas shakes his head. "It is not my place to say. That may be revealed to you, in time."

"But why -"

"Because of the prophecy," Cas says, lips turning down just a little at the corners in a worried frown. "You weren't brought back to win this war, or to save mankind. You and Dean are part of an ancient prophecy, a piece of the puzzle that must be put into place before this begins."

"What?" Dean says, taking a step toward Cas. "What do you mean?"

"You can't change the course of this war, Dean. But you must be present for it to take place. You and Sam will lead the human rebellion." Cas swallows, a painfully human gesture, and looks up at Dean from under hooded eyes. "And you will fail."

"Cas, what do you -" Sam begins, but the angel turns to him with something that could almost be a smile.

"Sam," he says politely, "will you give your brother and I a few moments alone?"

Sam blinks, looks at Dean dazedly, and then nods his head. "Okay. Alright, yeah. I'll just…Bobby's low on beer. I'll run to the store and grab a case."

Cas thanks him, and Dean watches him go, suspicion growing in his belly.

"Did you just put the whammy on my brother?" he hisses at Cas as soon as he hears the door shut.

Cas tilts his head and there is nothing but calm innocence in his expression. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that phrase."

"You whammied him," Dean says again, stepping toward Cas and poking a finger into his chest. "Used the Force, hit him with your mojo. What the _hell_, Cas?"

Cas looks away, almost sheepish, and then he raises his eyes to Dean again, and Dean suddenly finds it difficult to remember his anger. He's suddenly filled with a pleasant sort of buzzing, a warm tingle that runs from the tips of his ears down to his toes.

"_Dammit_, Cas!" he shouts, backing away quickly. "What in the hell are you -"

"I'm only trying to calm you down," Cas says reasonably, and Dean laughing, running a hand over his hair and shaking his head.

"It's a little too late for that, dontcha think?"

"Dean, I shouldn't be here," he says then, and the mood in the room suddenly shifts. Something in Dean's stomach goes icy cold, and he swallows past the bile he can taste rising in the back of his throat.

"What is it?" he asks in a whisper, eyes darting around as if someone or something might be watching.

"If they… if they find out I've been here," Cas says, turning away and walking to the window. He gazes outside for a long, quiet moment, seeming to forget he was in the middle of a sentence.

"If they find out…" Dean prompts, completely positive he does _not _want to know how that sentence ends.

"They'll kill me." Castiel's voice is flat, calm, and Dean wants to punch him, wants to throttle the son of a bitch for taking such a fucking huge risk, for coming back when he's only going to have to disappear again anyway.

"You selfish asshole," he says, coming up behind Cas and putting a hand on his shoulder, tugging the angel around to face him. "How dare you waltz in here like you haven't been gone six _fucking _months, tell us we're going to fight _another _war we can't possibly win, and then tell me you have to leave again or be killed? Are you fucking _serious_, man?"

Cas watches him rant without interruption, still and cold as marble.

"You left," Dean says finally, all the fight suddenly going out of him. "Sam was gone and you left, and you didn't even bother to tell me goodbye. I was… I was absolutely alone. I didn't have a fucking _soul, _and you just _left_."

"I _had _to," Cas retaliates, and the slight inflection shakes Dean more than all the shouting or screaming in the world.

"What?" he says, brought up short. "What's that supposed to mean."

"I made a deal, Dean."

The words send a chill through him, and now he's pretty certain he _is _going to be sick.

"A deal?" he repeats dumbly, hardly able to wrap his brain around it. "Like… like Sam made? Like I made?"

"Not exactly," Cas says, looking down at the floor and shifting from one foot to the other. "With another angel."

"Who?"

"That's not important. He was - _is _- more powerful than I."

"But why -"

"I knew Michael was likely to kill me. And if he didn't, Lucifer would have. Before the cemetery, I made the deal. I made it so I could be there when the fight was over. So I could…be there to put you back together."

Dean looks away, unable to meet Castiel's piercing gaze. His breath is coming fast and shallow, and he thinks maybe he'll have to add fainting to his list of things Dean Winchester is not too manly to do.

"And what… what were the terms? The price?"

"An immediate return to Heaven," Cas says, turning away from Dean again and staring out the window. "And," he adds, voice quiet and even more hoarse than usual, "another three millennia of service."

Dean feels like he's been punched. "And if you break it?"

"If I break it, there's no going back. If I choose to fall, I fall forever. I lose my Grace, and there is no getting it back."

Dean nods, then goes over to the chair and falls into it, hands coming up over his face, elbows resting heavy on his knees.

"Well," he says, voice muffled against his palms, "at least you get to keep your mojo. And you don't have to deal with being human again."

There's a long pause, and then Cas says, quietly, "Yes."

"Why'd you risk coming here?" Dean asks, peering up between his fingers. "If they find out -"

"I needed to warn you. This war, Dean, it's… it's like nothing I've ever heard of. It's going to be ugly and bloody, and all sides will suffer many losses. I don't think there's a way to stop it, but if there is…"

"I'll find it," Dean says, voice brimming with certainty he does not feel.

Cas nods, and Dean thinks maybe he sees his shoulders relax by a few degrees. It sends a pleasant thrill through him to think that he could ease the strain on the angel, but he tells himself firmly not to dwell on it, because Cas is leaving.

"I must leave now," Cas says, and Dean nearly laughs. "I'll try to return, if I get an opportunity and it isn't a danger to you. I'll help you, if I can. I'll fight, if you need me to."

Dean nods, too exhausted and spent to argue or protest. Cas turns away, and Dean's mouth is open and the words are tumbling out before he can stop them.

"I'm glad you came back."

Cas stops, his back to Dean, but Dean can see his head bow forward, fingers curling into fists at his sides.

"And I am glad you have Sam back."

Dean pushes himself out of the chair, ready to explain, ready to set him straight, even if he doesn't have a clue about what to say or how to start.

"Cas -" he says, reaching forward, but a sudden wind swirls around him, ruffling his hair and the collar of his shirt.

Cas is gone, and he is alone in the empty room.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **_Edited to correct a few grammar issues. The writing roll continues! I'm going to be exhausted tomorrow, but hey, it's totally worth it, right? Anywho, lots more Cas, though he's not entirely himself through most of it, and a touch more Wincest. That will start to fade out a bit, though there's still going to be some more of it before we get to the Dean/Cas. Keep on keeping on!_

**Disclaimer: **_You know what? Let's shake things up. I own them. I totally own all of them, and they bend to my every whim. What? Why are you laughing? Stop it. That's just not nice._

A week goes by with no word from Cas, and no headway in their research into impending doom. Bobby's fielding calls from hunters everywhere from Valdosta to Honolulu; demon sightings are on the rise, at a rate that has Dean scared stupid.

He's worried, more than he's ever been before, and he's hanging onto his sanity by a thread. He's terrified of losing Sam again, and spends his days wondering what he'll do if they try to take him away. He pores over books, sneezing when he kicks up a cloud of dust just turning the pages, but his mind is anywhere but on the words.

He falls into bed at night, exhausted and aching and fighting an emptiness he hasn't felt since that first night at Lisa's. In shock, cold and numb, it felt uncomfortably similar to what he's feeling now.

Sam is always in bed by the time he gets upstairs, snoring lightly and sprawled across the mattress, arms and ankles hanging off the edges every which way. Dean has to give him a shove just to squeeze in, but then Sam curls around him, throws an arm over his, and presses soft, sleepy kisses against the back of Dean's neck.

They don't have sex again, but Dean doesn't mind. The contact, the lingering touches and secret smiles are enough, and even though it kinda makes him wonder when he's gonna get his period, Dean doesn't care.

Dean wakes up one night and Sam isn't there, no warm arms twined around him like vines, no deep rumble of Sam's chest against his back. He sits up abruptly, petrified, and finds himself in the middle of a huge grassy field.

Dean blinks, looks around a little groggily, then pulls himself to his feet. There's what looks like a goal post at the far edge of the grass, and he thinks maybe he's stumbled into a soccer field. It's dark, and even with tall lights surrounding the field, he can see the stars twinkling in the velvet black sky. In fact, he can see everything clearly, every blade of grass, every dust mote dancing by is brought into sharp focus, like twisting the zoom lens on a camera.

It's obviously a dream, so he isn't surprised to feel a sudden presence at his back.

"Dean," Cas says when he turns around, hair matted to his forehead and dark with blood, clothes streaked with filth and hanging ragged around his small frame.

Dean looks at him for a moment, trying to figure out what's wrong. Then he realizes Cas isn't invading his personal space, isn't breathing his air or pressing his face so close Dean goes cross-eyed looking down at him. He seems impossibly far away, like there's some enormous chasm between them, even though when Dean looks down all he can see is a few feet of grass stretching from Castiel's shoes to his bare toes.

He looks up, realizing in that sluggish dream way that Cas is hurt, and that's not right, and so he figures he'd better do something about it. He takes a step forward, and Cas is jerked back incrementally, like he's being pulled by some invisible wire.

"Dean," Cas says, holding out a hand to stop him from coming any closer. "Don't -"

"Don't what?" Dean asks, voice rough with sleep and fear. "Tell me what's wrong, Cas. What's going on?"

"I don't have long," Cas says, turning to glance over his shoulder, and Dean gets the distinct impression he doesn't see the same grassy field and nighttime summer sky that he does. "I had to warn you," Cas goes on. "It's coming. It's coming, Dean, and it's bad. It's very bad."

Dean shakes his head. "What's coming, Cas? Something for Sam? Are they coming to take Sam?" Suddenly Dean is crying, though he doesn't realize it until he feels a tear drip off his chin and land on the fist he has clenched against his stomach. He wants to go to Cas, and he wants to wake up, but he can't seem to do either and the frustration eats a hole through him.

"Not Sam," Cas says, and Dean notices for the first time that his pupils are blown wide, hardly any blue visible around them at all, and Dean thinks he's never seen another human being - another _anything_ - look that scared. "Coming for me, Dean," Cas says, and his throat seems to catch on the words. "Coming for me and then… then coming for the rest of the world."

"What do I do?" Dean whispers, helpless and filling with a slow, steady rage that only makes the tears come harder.

"Remember this field," Cas says. "Remember this, Dean. Promise me." Cas looks over his shoulder again, and Dean can hear the choked-off gasping noise he makes low in his throat. "_Promise me_," he says again urgently, and Dean nods, hardly able to breathe.

"I promise," he says, and then suddenly he is back in bed, sitting up ramrod straight and gasping for air. Sam mutters something unintelligible and turns over, taking most of the blankets with him. Dean scrambles out of the bed and tugs on his abandoned jeans. He paws through the pile of dirty clothes on the chair next to the dresser, and pulls one of Sam's polos over his head.

That's when he sees it, out of the corner of his eye. It streaks across the night sky, blazing across diagonally from one corner of the window to the other. A shooting star. Dean pauses in the midst of stuffing his wallet into his back pocket, remembering a conversation with Anna, and his heart feels as if it's come to a complete standstill inside his chest.

"_Fuck_, Cas. What did you do?"

**oOo**

Dean floors it to the south edge of town, where the local high school sits sprawling and huge behind a quiet residential area. He takes the turns at around 75 miles an hour, and prays to his baby that she'll keep him on the road, keep him safe; it seems a safer bet than praying to God, right then.

He steers the car behind the school, toward the football stadium, and he lets out a relieved whoosh of air when he sees the soccer field beyond it, a familiar white goal post in the distance. He yanks the steering wheel hard and goes roaring off the service road and into the grass, nearly busting his head on the roof of the car as he flies over every little hill and valley.

He comes to a halt at the edge of the field, slamming on the brakes, the Impala's tires throwing up clods of dirt and grass like Mardi Gras confetti. He throws himself out of the car, barely remembering to put it in park, and he leaves the door hanging wide as he bolts through the grass.

There. He sees Cas, curled up next to the goalpost, his black tousled hair the only thing Dean can make out from this distance. Dean doesn't remember running, but suddenly he's right next to him, dropping down to the ground and scooping the angel up by the shoulders.

Cas is completely naked, and shivering in spite of the late summer warmth that clings on well into the night. He shudders and makes a pained noise when Dean touches him, eyes scrunched up tight and tears leaking from the corners.

"Shh," Dean says, rocking him against his chest. "Shh, Cas, it'll be alright. It'll be okay." He mutters more nonsense into Castiel's ear while he fumbles around in his pocket for his cell phone. He hears a noise and glances down at the caller ID, but then he realizes it's coming from Cas - a steady, high-pitched whine that Dean has only heard once before, the morning he and Sammy had found a dog hit by a car and abandoned on the side of the road. He'd held Sammy while he cried, and John took the wretched thing into the woods and put it out of its misery.

Dean sucks in a ragged breath at the memory and looks down at Cas, smoothing his hair back with the back of his hand at the same time he flips open his phone.

"Sam," he says, before Sam even has a chance to say hello. "It's Cas."

"Tell me where you are."

"The high school. Behind the football stadium, in the soccer field." Dean pauses when he feels Cas go rigid in his arms, and then suddenly the angel is folding over, heaving violently at the ground. Nothing comes up, but he chokes and wheezes and spits, shaking like a leaf against Dean's chest. "Sam," Dean says, panic choking his voice. "It's bad."

"I'm on my way," Sam says, and Dean can hear the familiar sound of Bobby's truck roaring to life in the background.

"Hurry," Dean says, and then, looking down at the shivering angel, "Bring blankets."

**oOo**

"Dean, you have to rest."

He frowns up at Sam, ignoring the slightly hurt look on his face, and then turns back to the bed.

"I am resting," he says gruffly, indicating the stiff armchair he's been planted in since they got back to Bobby's just before dawn. Cas is sleeping restlessly in the bed, flailing around and occasionally making noises so pitiful Sam looks longingly toward the door like he wants to flee to the calm quiet of the kitchen, where Bobby is making coffee and puttering around, desperately trying to be helpful.

"At least eat something," Sam says, and Dean shakes his head. He knows he's being difficult, but he's not moving until Cas is awake and out of the woods. He knows Sam would watch over him, if he wanted to shower or grab some breakfast, but he feels somehow responsible for what happened, and even though he kept the promise he made Cas not to forget the field in his dream, he still feels like he owes the angel something, like there's some debt he hasn't paid.

"Dean," Sam says, and he can hear the half-annoyed, half-plaintive sigh in his voice, "you haven't even gotten up to take a piss in four hours."

"I don't _have _to take a piss," Dean growls, leaning forward automatically as Cas turns his head fitfully and lets out a low groan.

Sam runs a hand through his hair and goes to the window seat, perching on the edge and crossing his arms over his chest in the way Dean knows means he's about to get a lecture.

"Save it, Sam," he says warningly, and Sam's eyes narrow to slits and his mouth pulls in. It's a grade-A bitchface, and Dean wouldn't mind pointing it out if he wasn't busy making sure his goddamn angel stays fucking _alive_.

"You can't help him if you make yourself sick," Sam says quietly, and Dean sighs. There's truth in what Sam's saying, and Dean can't deny it. He's half-dizzy with exhaustion and hunger, and there's a pretty spectacular ache beginning between his shoulders from carrying Cas to the backseat of the Impala.

"Just… bring me a donut or something," he says grudgingly, and he can almost _hear _Sam's smile from across the room.

"Glazed or sprinkles?" Sam asks, and Dean gives him a wry look.

"You even need to ask?"

Sam grins, and Dean feels an answering smile of his own stretching his mouth. Sam pauses when he walks by Dean's chair, reaching out with his hand to stroke Dean's cheek and tip his face up.

"I'm sorry this happened," he says softly. "But it's gonna be okay. We're gonna find a way to get Cas through this, and then we're gonna kick the ever-loving shit out of whoever did this to him."

Dean nods, feeling a familiar burn in his eyes, and he blinks it away. Sam leans in slowly, mouth brushing over Dean's in a sweet, feather-light kiss that's really more just about them sharing space and breath and touch than anything else. Sam presses his forehead to Dean's for a brief moment, and then he's out the door.

Dean touches the pads of two fingers to his lips, feeling the warmth left over from Sam's mouth, and he knows he should feel comforted, but he can't help the solid lump of dread that's built up in the pit of his stomach. He looks over at Cas and thinks about what Sam said, about kicking the ass of the creep who did this to him.

And then he wonders how he'll explain to Sam that Cas did this to himself.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **_You know, I'm really trying to up the Dean/Cas quotient in this story, but Sam, darling boy that he is, just isn't having it! Fortunately for him, Cas is still mostly unconscious… but oh boy, when he wakes up…. Well, you'll just have to keep reading! Oh, and massive cliffhanger ahead, but never fear - the next chapter should be posted within a day or two!_

**Disclaimer: **_Please don't sue me. I prefer to spend my money on DVDs and SPN paraphernalia._

Sam wakes up with one hell of a crick in his neck, pressed up against the arm of Bobby's living room sofa while his legs dangle off the other end. The living room is dark and quiet and he looks around, a little disoriented.

He sees a light in the kitchen, and then a familiar silhouette appears in the doorway.

"Hey," he says softly, propping himself up on his elbows and squinting in the dim light.

"Hey," Dean says, taking a long drink from the glass of water he's poured.

"How is he?"

Dean shrugs, but it's too dark for Sam to make out the expression on his face. "About the same. He was awake earlier, for a couple minutes. Nothin' he said made any sense, though." Dean pauses, and Sam can hear him take an unsteady breath. "He's in so much pain, Sam. I don't -"

"I know," Sam says, not able to bear the pain in Dean's voice. "C'mere," he says, sitting up and patting the cushion next to him. Dean looks at it for a long moment, then casts a look up the stairs. Sam is surprised when he gives a small nod and then walks into the living room, putting his water on the coffee table and sitting down with a groan.

"God, I'm tired," he says, stretching his arms over his head and leaning back into the cushions.

"You're not sleeping, are you?"

Dean shakes his head. "Not until… I can't -"

"I know. But Dean, running yourself ragged like this isn't going to help anything."

"I know that, Sam," Dean says, running a hand over his jaw and letting his eyes close for a brief moment. Sam can see in the hunch of his shoulders and the lines around his eyes how worn down he is, but he also knows that Dean is stubborn, just as stubborn as he himself is, and he won't be moved until Cas is up and around.

They sit in silence for a while, neither wanting to break the calm hush that's fallen around them. Dean's shoulder is just inches from his, and he leans closer, pressing their arms together.

"He Fell, didn't he?" Sam asks finally, though he already knows the answer.

"Yeah," Dean says, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I think so."

"Why would he…?"

"I don't know. Something was after him. Something bad."

"And now it's coming for us."

Dean laughs. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"We're gonna fix this, Dean. Cas… the war. We're gonna find a way to make it right."

Dean looks over at him, and Sam can see his eyes glinting in the dark. "Are we?" he says, and Sam's heart breaks a little.

"We are," he says firmly, even though he isn't entirely sure he believes it. He reaches over, putting a hand on the back of Dean's neck and giving him a reassuring squeeze.

Dean groans softly, tipping his head to the side. "Damn, that's nice," he says, leaning a little closer to Sam's warmth.

Sam smiles in the darkness, then presses his thumb into Dean's shoulder, rubbing it firmly over the tense knot under the skin. Dean hisses through his teeth, but he doesn't pull away.

"That hurt?" Sam asks, easing up the pressure.

"Yeah, a little," Dean says, "but s'good. Don't stop." And that's really all Sam needs to hear. He keeps one foot on the floor, lifting the other leg to slide it down the length of the couch. He leans back against the arm of the couch and pulls Dean toward him, situating him between his legs and bringing both hands to his shoulders.

Dean drops his head forward, and Sam can feel the tension slowly begin to seep out of his body. Dean moans, long and low, when Sam hits a particularly sore spot, and Sam's hips jerk a little at the sound.

Dean leans back until he's pressed against Sam's chest, and Sam's hands slide around, running down his stomach, feeling the hitch of his breath under his fingers. He stops just before he reaches the waistband of Dean's sweats, a little uncertain, but then Dean arches back, head dropping onto his shoulder, and Sam lets his fingers dip under the elastic.

Sam teases Dean for a little while, running the pads of his fingers over Dean's belly and down the crease of his leg, relishing the stifled little noises Dean is trying desperately not to make. He wants to draw it out, savor the way Dean is practically whimpering for more, but Dean's ass is pressed against his crotch, and Sam couldn't put up much resistance even if he wanted to.

He takes his hand out of Dean's pants and tugs at his shoulder, urging him to turn around. Dean does, capturing Sam's lips in a kiss that is demanding and slow at the same time. Sam lets his head fall back against the sofa and Dean moves with him, never letting their mouths break contact. He's hard and damp against Sam's belly, and it should be ridiculous, both of them grown men trying to squeeze onto Bobby's couch like teenagers, but really all it is is incredibly sexy, and it doesn't matter that Sam has one leg stretched onto the coffee table and nowhere to put his arm. Dean is there and Dean is moving over him and it's all he needs, all he wants.

They kiss for a while longer, until both of them are breathing heavily, and then Dean is pushing at Sam's flannel pants, tugging awkwardly until he has them just below his hips.

"This okay?" he asks, and Sam can't speak, but he nods, shoving a hand down the back of Dean's sweats and cupping his ass for emphasis. Dean groans and presses against him, thick cotton-clad hardness pressing into his. Sam fumbles around, swearing until he has Dean's pants pushed down, too, and then they're moving together like it's been forever, and Sam wishes it had been, wishes it's always been like this, because it's so _good_.

Dean slides against him, slick and hot, and Sam is certain there's never been anything more perfect than this. He arches his hips up, straining for more, and Dean rains kisses all over his collarbone, down onto his chest, murmuring words that Sam can't quite make out.

Sam throws a hand over his head, and Dean's hand follows, tracing a path up his arm and twining their fingers together. They move against one another, a sweet, slow ache building low in Sam's belly, the most delicious sort of pain he's ever felt.

He pushes a hand between them and curls it around the both of them, moving with the rhythm of Dean's hips. Dean is panting into his neck, one hand in his and the other gripping his bicep, fingers digging in until Sam is sure he'll have bruises the next day.

"Dean," he whispers, squeezing his fingers as his strokes quicken and become erratic.

"Yeah," Dean says, husky and wild. "Yeah, Sammy."

"Gonna… I'm gonna…"

"Me, too," Dean says, thrusting harder into Sam's hand. He pushes his face into Sam's chest, breath coming hot and damp against Sam's skin.

"_Fuck_," Sam hisses, tightening his grip. "Fuck, Dean."

"Mmm," Dean says, fingernails digging into Sam's skin. "Want you to."

It's all over for Sam then, thinking of Dean on his hands and knees, opened up to him and begging for it. He stifles a cry against Dean's shoulder and comes hard, shuddering and panting, and then Dean is following, spurting onto his belly.

They lay there catching their breath for long moments, Dean's cheek scratchy and hot against Sam's chest.

"You alright?" Sam asks, and Dean nods, the day-old scruff on his jaw tickling his skin.

"M' great," Dean mumbles, and Sam laughs. It feels good, to be able to laugh with his brother again, even if it's over something Sam could never have imagined. Or at least, could never have imagined coming true.

He's halfway to dreamland, Dean tucked safe in his arms, when there's a crash from upstairs, followed by a low wail.

"Shit!" Dean hisses, scrambling up and hitching up his sweatpants, tripping all over himself as he bolts for the stairs.

Sam watches him go, a little dazed, a little hurt, even though he knows Cas needs him. Cas needs Dean like Dean needs Sam, and Sam gets that, he really does, but that doesn't exactly make him feel too charitable toward the angel - _former _angel - when he interrupts… what he just interrupted.

"You _do _know you're brothers, right?"

Sam is on his feet in the space of heartbeat, Ruby's knife clenched in his hand, and _boy_ is he glad Bobby finally trusted him enough to give it back.

He can barely see the figure standing in the shadows, but it's not Bobby or Dean or Cas, and so he's lunging forward, crossing the room in two long steps and plunging the knife in and up like his dad taught him, pushing it in to the hilt.

"Tsk, tsk, Samuel," says the voice. "Is that any way to greet your guardian angel?"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **_Well, I did it. I created an OC. Sort of, anyway. But I swear, it's for the good of the story, and he won't be obnoxious or Gary Stu/Mary Sue-ish. Ugh. Hate me if you must. Truth be told, I hate myself a little, too. Further explanation and reasoning at the bottom of the chapter._

**Disclaimer: **_I own nothing but the cookies the lovely DiTab1 made for me. Fortunately, they're cyber cookies, so no fat and no calories. Unfortunately, that really is just about the extent of my worldly possessions. Moral of the story: don't sue._

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" Sam growls, backing up quickly and wondering how many seconds it will take him to get to the sawed-off Bobby keeps behind the cedar chest in the corner.

"I just told you, didn't I?" says the voice. "I would have shown you my true self, but you have such lovely eyes; it would be a pity to see them burned out of their sockets."

Sam shivers, half in fear and half at the mellifluous sound of the stranger's voice. He speaks in soft, low tones, even and slow, and Sam equates it to the sound of water moving over rock.

"Show me -" he says in a choked, strangled sort of way, and then he feels a flush creep up the back of his neck.

"Very well, then," says the other, and Sam can hear the smile in his voice. There's a clicking noise, like the snapping of fingers, and then suddenly the room is filled with an intense golden glow, more brilliant than candlelight, but softer than sunshine.

Sam gasps, backing up further, until the backs of his legs hit a side table and he realizes he has nowhere to go.

The stranger smiles, and Sam is filled with a sudden, terrible urge to cry. He's tall, every inch as tall as Sam, and it's strange, not to have to look down on someone. His hair is long, brushing the collar of his black leather jacket - platinum blonde but definitely not a bottle job - and his eyes are intensely gold, like the light puddling around him.

"Who are you?" Sam whispers, fighting an intense and unbidden desire to drop down to his knees. "_What _are you?"

The stranger smiles, and Sam feels a burn building at the back of his throat.

"I'm surprised you don't recognize me for what I am," the stranger says, and there's a rustling behind him, like a strong breeze gusting over a field of wheat. "Of course, your brother's the one with the most experience when it comes to my kind. He can practically smell us a mile off." There's a note of mild disgust in the stranger's voice, and Sam thinks he ought to feel indignant, but he doesn't.

"And as I recall," he continues, arching one fair eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a smirk, "he greeted his savior in much the same way." He looks down at the knife still sticking out of his chest, and his smirk drops into a disdainful frown. "How unoriginal."

"What are you… what are you _saying_?" Sam asks, happy to hear he can still scrape up a little oomph to put behind the words.

The stranger looks down at the floor, then back up at Sam through his lashes, almost coy. "Well, I don't have a speech worked up like my brother did for yours," he says, then turns the full power of his gaze on Sam. And then Sam _is _dropping to his knees, hard against the mahogany floor, and there's no air in his lungs, no air in the _room_, and his vision goes fuzzy and the stranger's voice is all around him, _inside _him when he speaks.

"I am the one who stormed the gates of Hell, Samuel Winchester, and brought the wrath of all Heaven upon the devil. I am the one who tore down your prison walls with my bare hands and anointed you with my blood. I broke the bindings Lucifer held over you, and I carried your body free of his chains. I swam through the lake of fire with you in my arms, and I dragged you from the pit. I am called Ramiel."

Sam blinks, sways a little, and some of the light in the room begins to ebb away.

"I thought you said you didn't have a speech," he manages to say, and then promptly passes out.

**oOo**

Dean wakes up sore and grumpy, the first rays of pink sunshine trickling in through the blinds, slanting directly over his firmly shut eyelids.

Grumbling, Dean blinks himself awake, slowly stretching out each cramped up limb and hissing at all the pops and cracks. He's getting old, he tells himself, and his body is starting to feel the effects of all those hard years on the road.

Of course, sleeping on a window seat the size of a postage stamp doesn't help, either.

He tilts his neck from side to side, wincing at the burn that lances through his bunched-up muscles, then rolls his head a few times, grimacing in pain.

"You should not be sleeping there," says a familiar voice like the crush of gravel on an old road, and Dean is across the room and scrambling onto the bed in two seconds flat, looking Cas over from head to toe, pressing his face in between his hands, and for once _he's _the one violating the personal space rule.

"You stupid son of a bitch," he says, low and dangerous, shaking Cas's head a little for emphasis. "You stupid… what did you _do_?"

"I Fell," Cas says simply, but Dean can't miss the desperate flash of fear in his blue eyes, nor the regret that's aged his face a decade in two days.

"_Why_?" Dean hisses, feeling all the emotion and worry of the last weeks begin to boil over. "Huh? Why would you do something so idiotic? You know what this means, you know you'll never get your Grace -"

"They were going to kill me," Cas says, and he looks away though he makes no move to pull himself free from Dean's touch. "And then they were going to kill you. And I couldn't - _can't _- protect you if I'm dead."

Dean lets this sink in for a moment, and he drops his hands to his lap, his anger gone and suddenly feeling weak and pathetic as a newborn kitten.

"You could've mojoed me out of it," he says quietly, already knowing it's a lame assertion.

"They would not allow me to leave, Dean," Cas says, just as quiet. "There was no way I could get to you, besides in your dreams, and even that was a risk. What would you have had me do?"

Dean shakes his head. "Not Fall. Not that. Dammit, Cas, after all that time you spent getting your power back, and you give it up, just like that, for what? To warn me some bad shit's coming? Well, guess what, Cas? I'm already fucking aware."

Cas looks down at the covers, and Dean feels a twinge in his stomach at the hurt that sits unmasked and open on his face. It takes him a moment to realize that Cas doesn't know yet how to hide his emotions, that he hasn't learned that all-too-human way of covering what he's really feeling.

"I set a trap," Cas says softly, not meeting Dean's eyes. "A diversion. It should give us a little time. A few days, maybe a week or two, at the most. It was all I could buy us."

And just like that, Dean feels like shit. He could've kicked an injured puppy in front of a schoolyard full of kids and he wouldn't feel half as dickish as he does right now, looking at Cas's stupid sad-sack face and his stupid blue eyes and his stupid pouty mouth.

And then he's thinking, half hysterical, that it's really fucking funny that God or whoever picked a body with such an angelic face to put Cas into, but then he remembers the few interactions he had with Jimmy Novak, and what he _doesn't_ remember is ever thinking he was anything other than ordinary.

Cas looks up at him then, and Dean wonders wildly for a few seconds if any of that shit actually came out of his mouth. But Cas just turns his head, jaw clenched tight, and Dean sighs.

"How do you… y'know, _feel_?" he asks finally, and then wonders if it's possible for him to be a bigger dipshit.

"Terrible," Cas says, with a wry little smile. "Like hell, I think you would probably say."

"What can I… what hurts?" Dean asks, thinking it's probably best to tackle one issue at a time.

"Everything," Cas says, and Dean can hear in his voice how true a sentiment it is. "My throat feels raw and my eyes are stinging. Every muscle in my body aches like fire. My stomach -" he says, then drops his eyes to his belly.

Dean follows his gaze, uncomprehending, and then Cas looks away, flushed all the way to his hairline, biting his bottom lip.

Dean shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing. "What, are you hungry?"

"Yes, I think so," Cas says. "But that's not…"

Dean stares at him for a long moment, and then realization dawns, awful and embarrassing. "Oh. _Oh_. Yeah, okay. Okay, dude, we can fix this. I mean, it's… you know, it's totally natural. Everybody does it."

Yep. Yes, indeed, he _can _be a bigger dipshit.

But Cas is nodding, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes, and goddamnit, Dean did _not _sign on for this. Potty training a former angel isn't on his list of life ambitions, but fuck it all, when Cas looks so damn helpless and pitiful, what else is he supposed to do?

"Okay," he says finally, clapping his hands with false cheer. "Let's get you up and into the bathroom. I'll, uh… I'll just give you the basic rundown and then, uh… let you do your thing."

Twenty minutes later, Dean has Cas in a fresh change of clothes, seated at the kitchen table with a plate full of eggs and bacon in front of him. It's beyond bizarre to see Cas out of his trench coat, looking rumpled but clean in a pair of Dean's sweatpants and an old t-shirt of Bobby's with the name of a tackle shop emblazoned across the front.

His hair is a filthy mess, matted down in the back and sticking straight out in front, and he's been sweating and rolling around in dirty sheets for two full days, but Dean isn't quite ready to tackle the whole shower issue. One hurdle at a time, he tells himself, putting a glass of orange juice in front of him and wondering whether angels, or former angels, drink coffee.

Cas is eyeing the food like it's maggot-infested or something, and it irks Dean a little bit. He cooked the eggs sunny side-up, and got the bacon right to that perfect balance of crispy and tender. It's practically one giant orgasm of a breakfast, and Cas is looking at it like it's going to give him the bubonic plague.

"You gotta eat, Cas," Dean says, carrying over his own plate and pulling out a chair.

"I do not… I don't have an appetite," he says, looking a little green around the gills.

"Jimmy sure as shit liked to eat," Dean points out, cramming a few pieces of bacon in his mouth, eyes rolling back as he chews. Heaven, pure heaven.

"I - this is no longer his body," Cas says, poking his congealing eggs with a fork. "I have no recollection of his physical presence, his desires, his appetites. This body is mine now."

"And you're tellin' me this body doesn't like eggs and bacon?" Dean says, cocking an eyebrow. "Bullshit."

"I do not know what this body likes… what it wants, or needs." There's something plaintive, lost, in the way he says it, and Dean can't help feeling sorry for him. He's lost everything - _given up _everything - and he can never have it back. It's a pretty shitty deal, Dean thinks, and he doesn't let himself remember that Cas did it all for him.

He's saved from further discussion when Sam bangs into the kitchen, sleep-dazed and clumsy, hissing out a string of swears when his hip knocks into the sharp corner of the countertop.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, a little amused but also a little worried. Sam looks like someone kicked him in the face, all puffy eyes and dark circles, and Dean wonders if he's been up, regretting what happened between them.

Sam mutters something unintelligible, stumbling blindly toward the coffee pot and pouring himself a mug without sloshing too much over the sides. It says something that he won't even take the time to make a cup of tea, and Dean feels his concern spike.

"Good morning, Sam Winchester," Cas says, and Sam jumps near out of his skin.

"Jesus _Christ_, Cas," he says, one hand going to shield his eyes, as if he has a hangover. Then he seems to take stock of the situation, and his eyes get a little wider. "Shit, man, I thought you were down for the count."

Cas's eyes flicker over to Dean, and he can see that Cas doesn't get the reference.

"He didn't think you were gonna wake up," Dean says, shooting Sam an irritated glance. Sleep-deprived or not, it's a pretty thoughtless thing to say, and he'll tell Sam so himself, when Cas isn't around to hear.

"Are you ill as well, Sam?" Cas asks politely, tilting his head at Sam and trying to look concerned. It's a face Dean recognizes, and he realizes, bizarrely, that Cas picked it up from him.

"What? No. No, dude, I'm fine. Just… couldn't sleep last night, that's all."

Dean shifts around, suddenly uncomfortable, and Cas looks at him sharply. There's something uncanny in his gaze, and Dean wonders if he really is 100 percent human now.

"There's bacon on the stove," he says, covering up the waver in his voice with a massive yawn. "N' eggs, too."

"Thanks," Sam says, getting himself a plate. "Where's Bobby?"

Dean shrugs. "Dunno. He was gone before I got downstairs."

The backdoor slams open then, and all three of them jump. Bobby stands there in his hunting cap, a rifle in his hand and a frown on his face. His eyes sweep over Cas and they widen for a moment, but he barely acknowledges him.

"Alright," he says, pushing the door shut behind him, waving the rifle around in a way that makes Dean want to put himself in front of Cas and Sam, "which one of you yahoos wants to explain to me what in tarnation that racket was about last night?"

Dean frowns. "Racket? What racket?" He can feel his ears go hot, though, and he prays desperately that Bobby didn't hear any of _that_.

"Woke me up in the middle of the damn night," Bobby growls. "I heard talkin', and then it sounded like someone fell, then there was all this shouting, and some sort of buzzing noise, like a giant beehive."

Dean is relieved and confused all at the same time. "Bobby, what the hell…?"

"You tell me," Bobby says, finally putting his rifle down, though a little grudgingly.

Dean turns to ask Sam if he has any ideas, but Sam is glaring down at his plate, looking pissed off and a little scared, and his lips are pressed into a thin line, the way Dean knows he does when he's lying.

"Sam?" he says, but Sam won't look up at him. "_Sam_," he says again, a warning in his voice, and Sam throws his fork down on the table and stands up abruptly.

"We need to talk," he says, looking down at Dean. "Alone."

**A/N Again: **_I was doing some research on angel names when I discovered Ramiel. Ramiel/Remiel is an archangel mentioned extensively in the Book of Enoch and other apocrypha. Here's where it gets cool: Ramiel was often confused with __**Azazel**__, and he was the angel of guiding the resurrected dead, and the angel of those who suffered visions. Perfect, am I right? I had originally intended to bring Gabriel back, and I'm not ruling that out, but I really liked the mythology of Ramiel, and wanted to incorporate it into the story. Okay, sales pitch over. I leave it now to your judgment!_


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **_So, my apologies for making Bobby a bit of a douche here, but to be fair, he's been through a lot. He gets a pass. This time. Also, a note about Ramiel: it was pointed out to me that in the book of Enoch, Ramiel and Uriel are referred to as the same being, one of the four archangels. I went back and did some further research, and there's a lot of conflicting information. For the purposes of this story, I'm bending the mythology a bit. Ramiel is going to continue to be a separate being from Uriel, and another of the archangels. Thanks for pointing out the error though - I appreciate it!_

**Disclaimer: **_Still not mine. Dammit._

"He's your _what_ now?"

"Angel," Sam says, tugging a hand through his hair. "_An_ angel," he says, "not _mine_. Not like you and - I mean, sorta like Cas is to you, I guess," he stammers, not really sure what he's trying to say.

"He pulled you outta hell," Dean says, still looking a little shell-shocked.

"S' what he says."

Dean peers at him across the den, eyes narrowing. "So where's your scar?"

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head. "Guess I didn't get one. Maybe he's just, y'know, a little neater than Cas, or something." Dean shoots him a sharp glare at that, and Sam throws his hands up. "Just a theory," he says defensively.

"So what did he say?" Deans says, shifting into work mode. "Did he mention _why_ they brought you back, by any chance? Or what the hell's on our asses this time?"

Sam shakes his head. "We didn't get too far past the introductions."

"What happened?"

Sam shrugs, feeling his cheeks go warm. "I fainted," he mumbles, turning his head away and pretending to be very interested in an artifact resting on the mantle.

"You did what?" Dean asks, and Sam can tell from the mirth in his voice that he knows exactly what he said.

"Shut up," he grumbles. "It was... intense."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's great, Pollyanna. You wanna go write about it in your diary, or you wanna give me some useful information here?"

"That's all I remember, Dean," Sam says, giving his brother a nasty look. "I woke up on the couch this morning feeling like I downed a bottle of cheap tequila."

"So what about the buzzing Bobby heard?"

"No idea," Sam says. "I guess maybe we should talk to Cas about it, find out if he knows anything useful. They're brothers, after all."

Dean looks up at sharply then, green eyes wide with panic. "Shit," he breathes, seemingly frozen in his seat. "Does he know Cas is here?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know. I mean, he mentioned Cas, but he didn't say anything about trying to track him down or anything. He seemed to know a lot about us, though."

"_Shit_!" Dean says again, fumbling around in his pocket frantically.

Sam watches him for a moment. "What're you doing?"

"We gotta get him out of here," he says, and Sams steps close enough to lean over and see that he's scrolling rapidly through his contacts. "Maybe call Quentin out in Salt Lake City. See if Cas can stay there a few days, 'til we figure out exactly what we're dealing with." His voice is rough with a hard edge of fear, and Sam drops a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Hey, man, it'll be okay," he says, trying to sound comforting. Truthfully, he can't quite figure out why Dean is in full-on freak out mode, but he recognizes genuine terror when he sees it.

"No, it -Jesus, Sam. Cas is… he's human now. Do you get what that _means_?" Sam opens his mouth to reply, but Dean steamrolls over him without pausing for breath. "He's got no mojo, no big guy upstairs lookin' out for him, no wi-" Dean's eyes go round and horrified. "Oh, God, his wings. I didn't even…"

"Dean, man -"

"He's totally human now, Sam. He's like a frigging infant in a grown up body. He probably doesn't even know how to fight. We can try to protect him all we like, but what'll he do when something happens to one of us, huh?"

"Dean," Sam says softly, edging closer like he's approaching a shying horse. "We'll figure it out, okay? We'll keep him safe."

Sam puts a hand on Dean's neck, then drags the one on his shoulder up to run the back of his fingers over Dean's jaw. Dean shrugs away from his touch, ducking his head down and refusing to meet his eyes.

"We got serious shit to deal with here, man," he says, voice gruff. "We don't have time for that right now," and Sam doesn't need to ask what _that _is referring to. He backs off, hurt gathering like a ticking bomb in belly, just waiting to go off, but he doesn't say anything.

Something's changed, and Sam knows it. He realizes with a sudden inexplicable certainty as he watches Dean messing with his phone, shoulders hunched and a determined look turning his eyes dark, that there may not be anything he can do to fix it.

And then he's not entirely sure he wants to.

**oOo**

Dean is wondering just how much more awkward this can get, sitting in silence and pretending to be extremely interested in his phone, when he knows he's hurt Sam's feelings. Problem is, he just can't seem to get it up enough to really feel a significant amount of guilt. Sure, he feels bad for brushing him off like that, but geez, they're talking freakin' life or death here. Sam'll get over it and things will go back to normal. Whatever normal means for them. At least, that's what Dean tells himself.

He's saved from thinking too damn much when Cas walks into the room, looking so much smaller now that he's not all angeled out. Dean feels the fear gnawing at the back of his mind begin to grow into something ugly and ravenous, looking at how frail, how completely _human _Cas is now.

"Er," Cas says, raising a hand to his messy hair and running it through uncertainly. "Bobby wanted to me to ask what's taking you… er…_idjits_… so long in here." Cas looks at the floor, self-conscious, and Dean can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Come on in, Bobby," he calls, and the older man stalks into the living room, muttering something about ungrateful kids taking over his whole damn house.

Sam gives Bobby and Cas the rundown on Ramiel, and Dean thinks it's almost funny, the twin expressions of surprise on their faces.

"My brother?" Cas says, when Sam finishes, something like awe and trepidation in his voice.

"What can you tell us about him?" Dean asks, sitting on the arm of Cas's chair. Cas looks up at him and shakes his head.

"I didn't know him well," he says. "We never served in the same garrison. He's powerful. _Extremely _powerful. And he Fell, once."

Dean's eyes go wide. "He _what_?"

"He Fell, many centuries ago. He married a human woman, and she bore him many children."

"What?" Dean says, just as Sam says, "Is that even _possible_?"

"Yes," Cas says, nodding solemnly. "They are called the nephilim. Half-human, half-angel."

"Shit," Dean says, and it just figures, doesn't it? Like they don't have enough to worry about with demons and angels and everything else.

"They aren't likely a threat to us," Cas says, reading his mind. "Most of them don't develop any angelic power."

"But what about Ramiel?" Sam asks, stuttering a little over the angel's name. Dean gives him a sharp look, and Sam flushes.

"He was restored to his Grace," Cas says, and Dean could swear the former angel looks envious.

"You think he's on our side?" Dean asks, and Cas smiles, but it's far from pleasant.

"Ramiel isn't on anyone's side but his own."

Dean looks grimly over at Sam, who won't meet his gaze. He pulls out his phone again, bringing up Quentin's number.

"I think we should get you out of here," he says, looking down at Cas's rumpled bed-head and feeling a surge of protectiveness swell in his chest.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I think we need to go into hiding, at least until we can figure out our next move."

"He found us here," Sam says. "What makes you think he won't find us there?"

It's a good argument, and Dean is annoyed by it even more for that.

"I agree with Dean," Cas says, and even Bobby looks surprised by it. All three of them turn their heads toward him, and Dean frowns down at him suspiciously.

"That wasn't much of a fight you put up there."

Cas shrugs, but he's no good at playing innocent yet, and Dean can read him like a book.

"It is not the worst idea you've had."

"Gee, thanks," Dean says, nudging Cas hard in the should with his elbow. "But seriously, what gives, Cas? I figured I'd have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming."

Cas cocks his head, giving Dean a confused but patient look. "I can kick and scream, if you like. Does that make it easier for you?"

Sam snickers in the corner, and Dean gives him a pretty clear _shut the hell up _look.

"I've just never known you to give up so easily, that's all," Dean says, and he can see the way Cas shifts his gaze away, staring down at the floor.

"I am not the same anymore," Cas says softly, and Dean wants to say something to make it alright, but there's nothing to say, because everything is all wrong and he knows it shouldn't be like this.

"You're a fighter, Cas," Sam says, voice brimming with conviction, and Dean is grateful, though a tiny part of him resents that Sam is saying what he couldn't. "We're gonna get through this, you'll see."

"No," Cas says, flat and firm, and Dean looks down at him sharply. "We're not." He shakes his head, mouth turning down in frustration. "Don't you see? I don't want to run for my sake - I want to run for _yours_."

"What's that mean?" Bobby asks, looking up at Dean like he has all the answers. "What's he mean?" Dean shakes his head helplessly and shrugs.

"I mean, this war…" Cas says, getting a faraway look in his eyes, "… it's not just angels against demons. It's _everything_. Every monster you've ever fought, every human you've ever saved - they're all a part of it. There aren't just two sides here. This war is going to be fought on _every _side, and every side will be destroyed."

Dean leans back against the chair, thunderstruck. He can feel Cas's arm pressed against him, and the angel is trembling. He leans in a little, trying to offer some silent comfort, and he's relieved when Cas's shoulders straighten.

"And you think runnin' away is the answer?" Bobby says finally, appalled. "You want us to just give up and throw in the towel, and let all those innocent people die?"

"Towels have nothing to do with it," Cas says, his growing frustrating evident. "But running may be the only way to keep Sam and Dean alive."

Bobby stands up abruptly, looming over Cas. Dean is on his feet before he can even think about it, pressing up into Bobby's space, pushing his chest against the older man's.

"You're gonna sacrifice how many lives to save theirs?" Bobby snarls over Dean's shoulder. "You think they're just gonna run away like cowards when people are dyin' all around 'em?"

"_Back off_," Dean hisses, shoving his hands against Bobby's shoulders.

"Dean -" Sam says, getting up from his chair, but Dean throws out a hand, stopping him.

"_Bobby_," he says, pushing at the older man again.

"You think I don't know about sacrifice?" Bobby says, and Dean can see now that there are tears filling up his eyes. "I killed my… I killed her _twice_. And why the hell'd I do it, if not to save a bunch of assholes I never met from getting killed in a war that ain't theirs to fight? And now you're tellin' me to run and hide and let 'em all die anyway? For what?"

Bobby is breathing heavily, so close and so harsh Dean can barely hear what Cas says.

"For those you love. To keep them safe. To keep them _alive_."

Bobby flinches, but he doesn't step back. Dean's hands are curled tight around his shoulders, but Bobby's not even looking at him.

"I been fightin' this war a lot of years, boy -"

"And I've been fighting it much longer than you," Cas says, standing up and putting a hand gently on Dean's back. Dean glances over his shoulder, and something in Cas's face makes him loosen his grip on Bobby and step back.

"I think you forget," Cas says, moving toward Bobby, voice low and deadly calm, "I may be human now, but I _was _an angel of the Lord. I may not have my Grace anymore, but I still have my memories. I remember every life that was ended by my hand to win this war, every innocent who fell by the wayside because victory was the only thing that mattered." Dean realizes, belatedly, that Cas has backed Bobby against the wall, their faces just inches apart. "I have given up my life for Dean, for Sam, more than once, and I will do it again, if it is required of me. I know about sacrifice, too, Bobby Singer, and you would do well not to forget that."

The room is utterly silent, and that saying about hearing a pin drop flits through Dean's head before it's replaced by something else - a humming noise that starts soft in the back of his head, then gets increasingly louder until it feel like the air around him is vibrating with it.

"What the _hell_?" Sam says, just as a picture frame rattles off the wall, crashing to the ground in a chorus of shattering glass.

They look at each other, confused and not a little frightened, and then Dean feels the floor beneath his feet begin to heave and shift.

"Outside," he says, grabbing Cas's arm and shoving him toward the door.

"What?" Cas says, turning from Bobby, face scrunched up as if in pain.

"The _car_," Dean says, hauling Sam behind him as he ushers Bobby and Cas into the foyer. "Get in the damn car!"

The four of them stagger out the door and half fall down the front porch stairs, Bobby in the lead as they race for the Impala. Bobby and Cas clamber into the backseat, and Sam yanks open the passenger side door, throwing himself in. Dean spares one last glance for the house, just in time to see one of the columns supporting the porch buckle and give, crashing down in a cloud of thick white dust.

Then he's in the car and he's got her in drive, and they're halfway to the main road before he risks a peek in the rearview mirror.

And he doesn't see a damn thing.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **_More plot development, and more Ramiel! Hope you guys like him - I'm enjoying writing him, but I'm sort of anti-OC just on principle. Still, I like having him around so far. _

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own anything but my sadness that I do not own anything. It's a vicious cycle._

They drive in tense silence for what seems like hours, barely breathing until they hit the state line. Dean stops for gas in Four Corners, going through the motions of filling up the tank mechanically. Sam gets out to clean off the windshield, dragging the squeegee methodically over the glass until it sparkles. Bobby gets out and goes into the brightly lit little convenience store to use the bathroom, and Cas sits in the back, staring blankly out the window.

They're back on the road fifteen minutes later, and when Dean checks the clock in the dashboard he's surprised to see that it's barely 2:00 in the afternoon. They can make it to Salt Lake City by dark, if traffic is light and he guns it all the way.

Dean takes the highway straight into Rawlins, opting for the speed of four lanes over the cover the back roads would offer. They stop once more for gas, and Sam offers to drive the rest of the way. Deans tells him no; there's very little he feels he has control over anymore, but keeping the Impala on the road is one of them.

Sam lets Cas have the front seat, and he climbs into the back with Bobby. They're just outside Green River when Sam leans forward, hands gripping the back of Cas's seat, and turns wide, frightened eyes on Dean.

"Hear that?" he whispers, and Dean sees every muscle in Cas's body go tense out of the corner of his eye. It takes him another moment to recognize it, but then it's there, that same soft humming that sounds like it's coming from inside his head.

"Shit," he says, as he feels the vibration move through the steering wheel and into his hands. He eases up off the gas, glad there are no other cars on the road. The last rays of sunshine are crowding through gaps in the purpling clouds, and Dean looks up to find himself momentarily blinded. He swerves, angling the Impala onto the shoulder, throwing up gravel and skidding to a halt inches away from a cement culvert.

"Are we there yet?"

Dean whips around in his seat, letting loose a string of swears. There's a man in the backseat, pressed in tight between Bobby and Sam, a slow grin stretching his face. He's huge, Dean thinks, almost bigger than Sam, and his knees are wedged up against the seat back, head ducked down low so it doesn't brush the roof. He's very blonde, and his eyes are glowing almost… yellow.

_Yellow eyes._

Dean fumbles with the sheath strapped to his ankle, sliding the knife out and keeping it close against his leg. The stranger gives him a knowing smile, then raises a hand, twisting two fingers in the air. Dean feels cold metal against the back of his hand where the blade has been bent completely in half. He stares, too stunned to speak, and the stranger turns to Sam, who's watching him with a combination of terror and outright worship.

"You are a hard Winchester to track down, Samuel," he says, cocking his head and giving Sam a reproachful look.

"Sorry," Sam breathes, barely blinking as he stares.

"Ramiel," Cas says, turning in his seat to give his brother a disapproving glare.

"Ramiel?" Dean and Bobby say at the same moment.

The angel smiles, wide and blindingly white. "My reputation precedes me, I see. Hello, brother."

"What do you want with Sam?" Cas asks, and Dean feels a surge of relief in hearing the same gruff ferocity in his voice as always.

"He's mine," Ramiel growls, and his eyes flash molten hot for a split second.

"Like _hell -_" Dean begins, but Cas reaches out, putting a hand on his arm. Dean looks over just in time to see the barely perceptible shake of Cas's head, and he clamps his mouth shut.

"I dragged him from the pit," Ramiel continues, a steady low buzz filling the air around him. "I patched his body and soul back together from the shreds they left of him."

"You brought him out to fulfill a prophecy," Cas says, voice dripping with disdain. "There is nothing heroic in raising the dead only to offer them up as a sacrifice to your cause."

Ramiel raises a solitary eyebrow, and the insolent smile is back on his face. "And you were only following orders when you raised the elder Winchester, dear brother. Is there anything nobler in that?"

"I carried Dean's soul in my hands," Cas says, and Dean looks over at him sharply, surprised by the electricity that goes lancing through his chest at the simple statement.

"And I held Samuel's in mine," Ramiel says, voice gentling. "It would seem those bonds are not easily severed."

"No," Cas agrees, and Dean sees something like a mutual understanding pass between them.

"Does anyone wanna tell me what in the hell's going on here?" Dean says finally, breaking some of the tension that's filling up the car.

Ramiel looks at Sam, then quickly glances away, almost uncomfortable. "I came to warn you," he says, staring out the windshield. "Against my better judgment, I find myself compelled to tell you that the angels are tracking you. They will not kill you, yet, but they hope to use you."

"And why the hell should we believe you?" Bobby asks, pressed up against the door, as far as he can get from the enormous angel.

"Because I… because it seems I do not relish the idea of Samuel being used against his will in this war," he says, almost reluctantly. "The Winchester brothers are prophesied to lead the humans against both the angels and the demons; it would be quite a coup to win you over to our side."

Sam shakes his head, as if coming out of a dream. "But I thought we were doomed to fail anyway. Why do the angels care?"

Ramiel turns to him with a soft, patient expression, and Dean wants to slap it right off his face.

"Because alone, the humans _will _fail. You will die, every one of you. If you fight for us, we can defeat the demons, we can overcome them and take Hell for our own. And we can offer the humans protection, give the weak ones sanctuary in Heaven until the war is over." He leans in, face just inches from Sam's, and Dean wants nothing more than to climb over the seat and pummel the arrogant asshole. "I can keep you safe, Samuel. I can protect you."

"And… and what about the others?" Sam says, swallowing hard around his words.

Ramiel spares a brief sideways glance at Dean, pressing his lips together in a hard line. "I can make sure they're protected, too," he says grudgingly.

"What would I have to -"

"_No_," Dean says, ignoring Cas's warning looks. "You're not using my brother like some chess pawn, not again. Man, you angels," he says, shaking his head, "you're supposed to be these creatures of light and love, right? And all you really are is a bunch of cocky, manipulative dickwads."

Ramiel sits back, thankfully pulling himself out of Sam's personal space, and gives Dean a patronizing look. "You don't seem to have much of a problem with the cocky, manipulative dickwad sitting beside you," he says, nodding at Cas.

"Shut up," Dean says, unconsciously scooting closer to the former angel. "Cas isn't one of you anymore, and he was never like you to begin with."

"Dean -" Cas says, but Dean cuts him off.

"He was always too good for you. You all thought he was weak for caring about humans, for caring about _us_, but in reality, that just makes him a better angel - a better _man _- than the rest of you could ever hope to be."

"_Dean_," Cas says again, gentle but firm, and Dean's shoulders sag, deflated. Ramiel is watching them with an amused expression, a big shit-eating grin on his face, and Dean wants nothing more than to wipe it off.

"Well," Ramiel says, turning his smile on Sam, who goes all wide-eyed and breathless like some pre-teen girl, "they certainly are an interesting pair, aren't they?"

Dean scowls, but Sam just nods slightly then looks surprised, like he hadn't meant to react at all.

"Unfortunately," Ramiel says, "we don't have time to continue this discussion. The others are on my tail, and I need to get you somewhere safe."

"How are they being tracked?" Cas asks. "The Enochian sigils -"

"Were wiped clean when I raised Samuel. And because he is integrally linked to Dean, they can both be followed."

Cas looks at him askance. "Why didn't you replace them? You could have easily -"

"The power, the Grace it takes to perform such a marking leaves traces, Castiel. They would know it was me, and I can't risk discovery, not at this point. They can't know I'm sympathetic to the Winchesters, or their fallen angel."

"But I -"

"They knew, brother. They knew it was you who hid the Winchesters from them. Only the intervention of our Father stopped them from killing you immediately."

Dean sits back, letting that sink in. "Cas, did you -"

"I didn't… I thought I'd been lucky."

"You thought…? Shit, Cas. You knew they might come after you, and you did it anyway? Did you have some sort of death wish or something?"

"As charming as this little tiff is," Ramiel says, leaning forward, "we don't have much time. There's a motel off the next exit. Stop there for the night, and ask for room 115. It's protected, and they won't be able to find you there. Stay there until you hear from me again."

"What makes you -" Dean begins, but Ramiel cuts him off with a sharp look.

"This is not negotiable, Dean Winchester. You will go there, and you will stay there until I say. If you value your brother's safety at all, you will not fight me on this."

Dean clenches his jaw, breathing heavily through his nose, but he doesn't argue. Ramiel turns to Sam, a grave look on his face.

"Goodbye, Samuel," he says. "I will come soon."

The low-grade hum in the car grows to an eardrum-pounding crescendo, and then Ramiel is gone.

Bobby and Sam stare at each other across the open space in the backseat, and their twin expressions of surprise would be almost funny, if Dean didn't have the absolute conviction that everything was going to shit, and fast.

He turns around, gripping the steering wheel hard, and starts the car. "Seatbelt on, Cas," he growls, and then yanks at the gearshift.

The roll into the motel parking lot ten minutes later. It's a hole-in-the-wall, pay-by-the-hour kinda place, like they've stayed in a million times before, but there's a sense of power around them when they finally get into room 115, a soft humming crackle of energy that tickles Dean's skin like a pesky insect.

It's not even 10:00, but Dean is so exhausted he's falling asleep sitting up on the bed in front of the TV. After a few awkward moments of silence, Cas offers to sleep on the tiny, vinyl covered loveseat so Bobby can have the other bed. Dean feels a little guilty, but it goes away quickly when he crawls into bed next to Sam, relaxing into the mattress and enjoying the feel of the darkness sinking down over him.

He wants to nudge closer to Sam, curl into his warmth and feel those strong arms slide around him, but there are some things Bobby just doesn't need to see, and besides, it feels kinda weird somehow, with Cas right there in the room. It makes Dean feel uneasy, even thinking about it, like even contemplating it would hurt Cas's feelings.

He lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, suddenly wide awake. He hears a rustle of sheets, and then Sam's hand finds his, grabbing on and squeezing tight. He squeezes back, feeling reassured, and when Sam lets go, it's okay. He smiles a little and settles back into the pillow, and before he can even start to worry about what lies ahead, he's asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **_Back again, finally! There will be more plottage and less time spent standing around talking after this chapter, I promise. And hopefully we'll see a little more action (not the fighting kind) as well. More Dean/Cas in this chapter… we're getting there, I swear it!_

**Disclaimer**: _Not anywhere even close to being mine._

Four people in a cramped, dirty motel room is a lot less tolerable than just two, Dean is learning. He and Sam and Bobby and Cas have been circling each other all day, fidgeting and pacing and letting out the occasional sigh of pent-up frustration. They don't hear from Ramiel, and while Dean makes for the door half a dozen times, Sam stills him with a firm hand on his arm.

"Dammit, Sam," he growls, after the latest escape attempt.

"Dean, we don't know what's out there. We can't just go rushing into something half-cocked when we don't even know what we're fighting."

Dean yanks his arm out of Sam's grasp and turns away, grumbling, even though he knows Sam's right. He's going crazy, sitting around counting the ceiling tiles, when he ought to be out there blowing away the bastards who're planning to bring hellfire and damnation down on their heads.

Sam stalks away and plants himself on the chair closest to the door, fixing Dean with a challenging glare. Dean makes a face at him and throws himself onto the edge of the bed, reaching for the remote control for what feels like the hundredth time.

A moment later, he feels the mattress dip down a bit, and turns to see Cas perched on the corner, looking awkward and uncomfortable as always. It's almost comforting, to see him looking so out of place, like he did before, but Dean can't help aching for him, for all he's lost, just a little.

"Hey," he says, leaning over and bumping his shoulder against Cas's arm. Cas turns his head and gives him a little smile that doesn't quiet reach his eyes, and Dean swallows hard, suddenly feeling an overwhelming sense of responsibility for the former angel.

"Hi," Cas says quietly, and there's something so terribly and awfully human about it. Dean looks away, suddenly unable to meet Cas's gaze, until he feels a hand on his knee.

"I do not blame you, Dean," Cas says, squeezing his fingers lightly against Dean's denim-clad leg. "I made this decision, not you."

Dean nods, throat thick and uncomfortably tight. He's lifting his hand to drop it on top of Cas's when there's a terrible rushing noise in the room, and the lights flicker wildly for several long moments, leaving him half-blind and bewildered.

Ramiel is standing in the middle of the room, a shadow stretching across the wall behind him, expansive and dark and rippling in the dimmed overhead lights. The wings are impressive and terrifying, and Dean feels Cas go immediately rigid beside him.

"Samuel," Ramiel says, his eyes immediately seeking out Sam and ignoring the others.

"Yes," Sam says, taking a tiny step forward and then looking down at his feet as if they've betrayed him.

Ramiel smiles, a gentle upward turn of the lips, and Dean grips the edge of the mattress hard, fingers curling until he feels the hard metal press of the springs.

"I require your assistance," Ramiel says, and Dean is on his feet, shaking off the hand Cas twines into the hem of his shirt.

"The _fuck _you do," he growls, crossing toward the angel. Big scary wings or no big scary wings, Dean is determined to put an end to this, to break this disturbing hold Ramiel seems to have over his brother. "You're not gonna use him this time, you dick."

Ramiel turns a heavy golden gaze on him, and Dean stops in his tracks. He tries to meet the angel's eyes, but as he tries, he feels a tight, constricting pressure around his chest, like some giant fist is squeezing all the air out of him. He looks away, and the pressure eases. He sags against the dresser, rubbing a hand over his heart and looking around, a little dazed.

"What did you _do _to him?" Sam asks harshly, stepping boldly close to the angel until they're practically nose-to-nose. "You don't _touch _him," Sam says, dangerously quiet. "You want anything from me, fucking around with my brother is _not _the way to get it. You hear me?"

Ramiel stares coolly at Sam, not backing down, but Dean notices something in his face seems to slacken a bit.

"Fine," he says after a long moment, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the wall. "I won't touch him, and you'll give me what I want."

Sam goes a little pale, and Dean knows he's wondering what he's getting himself into. Dean is only wondering how he's going to get him _out _of it.

"What do you want?" Sam asks, stubbornly staying in Ramiel's space, even though Dean can see the tense line of his shoulders and the barely noticeable tremble in his knees.

Ramiel looks away then, suddenly uncomfortable. "Research," he says roughly, lifting a hand to push his hair behind his ear in a bizarrely human gesture.

"Research?" Dean says, finally getting enough breath in his lungs to speak.

Ramiel's jaw clenches, and though Dean asked the question, he looks at Sam when he answers.

"I find your human technology… befuddling," he says finally. He lifts his chin and looks down his nose at Sam, enjoying maybe a centimeter or two of height advantage. "Your forms of communication and travel are prehistoric compared to my kind. It is too simple for a celestial creature like myself to comprehend."

Dean laughs - actually _laughs _- out loud at the absurdity of the statement. Ramiel doesn't even spare him a look, but he feels the same awful pressure as before building up behind his diaphragm. Sam cocks his head, giving Ramiel a warning look, and the feeling disappears.

"I'll help you," Sam says slowly, and Dean wants to shout and curse and wave his arms, but the look of relief on Ramiel's face is so unexpected, it stuns him into silence.

"We'll leave now," Ramiel says, lifting a hand to Sam's forehead.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean says, finding his legs and striding over to Sam. "You're not serious?" he says, leaning in close to Sam and speaking in a hushed voice, even though he knows Ramiel can hear every word. "Sammy, you don't gotta do this."

Sam sighs. "I know, Dean. But we - we don't know anything right now, and if we can figure it out… if we can find out how to stop this -"

"But we'll be helping them," Dean says, tipping his head at Ramiel, who merely raises an eyebrow at him. "Helping _him_."

"Dean, I… I know. Just… let me do this, okay?" Sam's face is twisted up and Dean can see the confusion warring with plain old _want _in his eyes, and he finally relents.

"Alright," he says, backing off a bit. "But we're going with you."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," Ramiel says, a slight smirk creeping onto his face.

"Why the hell not?" Dean says, hackles back up in an instant.

"Because my brothers are sniffing down Castiel like a dog chasing a fox. It isn't safe for him to leave here yet."

"And -"

"And you won't leave _him_."

Dean clamps his teeth together and stares at the ground. Ramiel's right, and he's hit a sore spot that Dean's been worrying at like an infected tooth for days. Cas steps forward, probably to offer himself up like some pig for the slaughter, Dean figures, but he holds out a hand, stilling him.

"Fine," Dean says, tightly. "I'll stay. But you're taking Bobby with you."

"Ex_cuse_ me?" Bobby says, as Ramiel looks over at him with a distasteful frown.

"I'm not sending Sam with you alone, Ramiel. So you take your pick: either we all sit around here together and play Monopoly, or you take Sam _and _Bobby and figure out how to get us the hell out of this fuckin' mess. Clock's tickin', Rami. What'll it be?"

Ramiel heaves a put-upon breath, then looks up at Sam with a wicked smile. "Alright then. If we must be chaperoned, I suppose we must. Come, Sam."

Sam steps impossibly closer to the angel, and it cuts Dean to the quick, seeing the trust laid bare and open on his face. Bobby moves toward the pair, distinctly less willing, and Ramiel glances over at Dean.

"Oh. I brought you provisions. I don't know when we will return, so make it last."

Dean opens his mouth to argue that bit about returning, but before he can speak the three of them have disappeared. He glances over to the table and sees it heaped with food - cheeseburgers and fries and even some fruits and vegetables, though he isn't quite sure what in the hell Ramiel thinks he's gonna do with those.

He sighs, trudging over to the table and casting a look over his shoulder at Cas. "You hungry?"

Cas shakes his head, looking troubled by what's happened. "Not especially."

"C'mon, man. We've talked about this; you have to eat."

Cas comes to stand near Dan and looks the food over with a critical eye. "Ever since Famine," he says softly, so close behind Dean their shoulders are brushing, "I find the very idea of hamburgers revolting."

Dean smiles a little and leans back, giving him a friendly bump. "Yeah, okay, you got me there. But seriously, Cas. You're human now; you gotta eat."

"I don't… know what I like."

Dean turns around slowly, a grin stretching his face. "Well then, we'll just have to find out."

Half an hour later, the room is a disaster area. There are wrappers and napkins and Styrofoam plates strewn all of the place, and both sets of sheets will have to be shaken out before anyone can dare think of sleeping in them.

Dean is shaking a can of whipped cream, laughing a little when it sputters and slings up white flecks onto his hand. He licks it off, then sits down at the table, looking at Cas across from him and giving him a wink.

He picks up the spoon and digs in, moaning as he chews and letting his head drop back, totally blissed out. He can't remember the last time he had this, and it tastes like summer, like swimming and baseball and chasing Sammy through a field full of lightning bugs.

He cracks open an eye and finds Cas watching him intently, mouth slightly open and gaze wide and dark. He figures he's finally piqued his interest, and he sits up straight, smiling triumphantly.

"Want some?" he says, holding up his spoon and wiggling it around enticingly. Cas's eyes get even bigger.

"I don't -" he begins, and Dean takes advantage of his open mouth. He thrusts the spoon in and Cas closes his mouth around it, his eyebrows shooting to the top of his hairline.

Castiel's eyelids flutter a little and Dean grins as he pulls out the spoon, watching Cas chew and swallow slowly, a look of quiet awe spreading across his face.

"That… that was… what _was_ that?"

Dean chuckles. "_That _was strawberry shortcake."

"Strawberry shortcake," Cas breathes, closing his eyes as he rolls the words around on his tongue.

Dean smirks a little. "It ain't pie, but it's pretty damn awesome, huh?"

Cas nods dumbly, then licks his bottom lip. Dean follows the movement with his gaze, then notices the dribble of strawberry juice at the corner of Castiel's mouth.

"Here, you've got a little -" Dean says, leaning forward to swipe his thumb over Cas's lip.

The angel's eyes get even bigger, but he doesn't pull away. Dean catches his breath, then seems to realize what he's doing. He snatches his hand away and jumps to his feet as his chair skitters back with a screech.

"I, uh…" he says, then clears his throat. "I gotta… hit the head."

"Whose head?" Cas asks, but Dean has already disappeared into the bathroom.

He stays there for an embarrassingly long time, and when he comes out, the room is tidy and the beds are made. Cas sits at the edge of one of them, staring at the blank TV screen. He doesn't look up when Dean emerges, but his shoulders tense.

"Cas, I -"

"I am tired," Cas says, turning his face toward Dean and giving him a look as empty as the TV.

"It's, uh… it's barely nine o'clock," Dean says, with a quick look over at the bright red numbers of the alarm clock.

"I am not used to this body, and it wears on me. I wish to sleep."

"Okay," Dean says, nodding slowly. "Yeah, okay. Why don't you take Bobby's bed? We don't know how long they'll be gone."

Cas nods briefly, then turns to pull down the covers. Dean notices he changed while he was holed up in the bathroom. He's wearing the sweats Dean gave him the morning before. They're a little long and baggy at the waist, and Cas hitches them up before he climbs into the bed. Dean smiles a little, then swallows hard, feeling a pressure in his chest that has nothing to do with Ramiel's mojo.

He sits down on the edge of the other bed, watching as Cas rolls away from him and burrows his head into the pillow.

"G'night, Cas," he says, tentatively. He gets no answer, and finally sighs, reaching over to click off the light over the nightstand.

He lays awake most of the night, listening to Cas's soft, even breathing. He wonders where Sam is, if he's safe, if Ramiel is taking care of him, and then he wonders how things could get so fucked up again, just when they were starting to go right.

He doesn't fall asleep until the first gray rays of light are creeping in under the shades, and when he finally succumbs, he dreams of strawberries and blood.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **_Okay, I hate myself a little, but I have to give in. I am now officially pairing Sam with Ramiel. It sorta makes me want to die, but Rami is being insistent about it. Dick. Oh, and I know I don't answer who Rami's been fighting with in this chapter… but we'll get to that, I promise!_

**Disclaimer**: _Not mine. Not yours, either. So, there._

Dean awakes to screaming.

There's a roaring in his ears, and he almost doesn't hear the shouting over it. At first he thinks maybe he's dreaming, but when he blinks his eyes open, he catches a flash of light so bright he whips his face to the side, pressing it into the pillow.

Finally, he makes out Sam's voice among the chaos, ragged and panicked, and he risks another look. Sam is crouched on the other bed, leaning over top of something while Ramiel checks the salt lines on the door and windows. Cas is sitting up, blinking blearily at the intrusion onto his bed, but then Dean sees his eyes go wide and scared, and suddenly he's moving, scrambling off the bed and looking around wildly, as if something's missing.

Dean, still not entirely awake, is having trouble putting all the pieces together. "Sam, what -?" he asks, then stops when Sam turns a terror-stricken look on him over one shoulder.

"It's Bobby," he says, and then Dean sees. The lump underneath Sam - bloodied and broken and not at all human-shaped - is Bobby.

"What the -" he says, then chokes over the words, gagging and sputtering. "What the hell happened?"

"Demons," Sam gasps, and Dean realizes he's holding pressure on some part of Bobby that Dean can't identify, and there's blood, so _much _blood, gushing over the side of the mattress.

"Shit," Dean hisses, moving toward the bed, even though he doesn't want to get any closer to the ragged lump of flesh that is Bobby. "What were they -"

"And angels," Sam says, and Dean stops cold. He shouldn't be surprised. He shouldn't. He knows angels are dicks. He says it often enough. But there's part of him, some small part that still wants to believe angels are divine beings, good and pure. But nothing… nothing _good _could do something like that to _anyone_… to _Bobby_.

"Why haven't you healed him?" Cas asks, looking at Ramiel, who's cut a gash in his hand and is drawing protection sigils all over the walls.

"There was no time!" Ramiel snaps, smearing blood in a jagged line. "My priority was to keep Samuel safe."

"Yeah, well, he's safe," Dean growls. "Now your priority is to put Bobby _back together_."

Ramiel shoots Dean a glare, but he says nothing. He finishes the sigil and stalks over to the bed, pushing Sam gently but firmly out of the way. Cas hovers nearby, and Dean can see from the mixture of pain and frustration on his face that he wants desperately to help.

"_Move_!" Ramiel hisses, brushing Cas aside and climbing onto the bed. Dean steps back, knowing there's nothing he can do, and Sam and Cas both come to stand near him.

They watch for endless moments, breath held, not a sound between them, while Ramiel moves his hands swiftly over Bobby's bleeding, lifeless body. There's a noise, a loud but muffled bang, and then a brilliant flash of light fills the room.

When Dean is able to see again past the spots dancing in front of his eyes, he feels an intense flood of relief washing over him. Bobby is whole and alive, unconscious but obviously breathing on the bed.

Dean doesn't even realize his knees have buckled until both Sam's and Cas's arms are around him, and they're all three holding each other up, grinning and slapping one another on the back like they did something worth congratulations. Across the room, Ramiel is bent over, and Dean thinks he looks a little pale, a little drained.

Sam notices at the same time, and his arm slides from around Dean's shoulders and he's across the room in three long strides.

"Rami, are you -"

"I'm fine, Samuel," Ramiel says, holding up a hand and giving Sam a strained smile. Dean doesn't miss the use of the nickname, but he figures he only has himself to blame, since he started it.

"It takes… a good amount of power, to bring someone back… who is that far gone," Ramiel continues, one hand pressing against his chest. There's a faint glow at his throat, pulsing dimly beneath his fingers, and Dean realizes with a sort of wonder that it must be his Grace. He looks over at Cas, and sees him watching almost greedily, envy and resentment and sadness written all over his face. Then he notices Dean watching, and the look is gone in an instant, replaced with an expression of blank neutrality.

In the meantime, Sam is moving nearer to Ramiel, tilting his head to the side and stretching out a hand as he inches closer. Ramiel flinches backward, but Sam keeps moving, reaching forward until his fingertips brush Ramiel's. The soft glow of Ramiel's Grace brightens at the touch, intensifying slowly until it shimmers through his fingers and up Sam's arm, surrounding the pair of them with warm golden light.

Dean steps closer to Cas without realizing it. He knows he's witnessing something rare, and while he hates that Sam is sharing it with Ramiel and not him, he can't help but be a little bit in awe.

Finally, Sam pulls his hand away, and the light diminishes, fading away until only a faint paleness at the base of Ramiel's throat gives any indication it had ever been there. Ramiel looks down at the floor and then up at Sam through his lashes, a grave look on his face.

"Thank you, Samuel Winchester," he says, in a voice that is free of all the smarm and sarcasm Dean has become accustomed to.

"For what?" Sam asks, and his voice is changed, as well. There is something breathless, something like discovery in it.

"You have… restored me."

"But how -"

But before Sam can get any further with his question, the now-familiar buzzing fills the air, and Ramiel is gone. Sam looks around for a moment like a lost little boy, and Dean wants to go to him, but he suddenly feels like he can't, or shouldn't.

Instead, he moves to Bobby's side, and together they manage to get him into a comfortable position and tuck the covers around him. Afterward, they congregate on Dean's bed, conferring in hushed tones.

"So what in the hell happened?" Dean asks, wincing when it comes out too harsh. Sam just shrugs, still looking like someone's just taken away his favorite teddy bear.

"I don't know. We were at the Library of Congress -"

"The _what?_"

Sam gives him a look. "It's in D.C., Dean."

"I know where it is. I mean, what were you doing there?"

"Research. Rami wasn't lying. He needed our help to look back through some ancient scrolls the Library catalogued back in the 50s."

Cas leans forward on the bed, brushing Dean's arm. "Did you find anything?"

Sam shakes his head. "Not really. We'd just managed to break through all the password protection when they attacked."

"Demons?" Dean asks, and Sam nods.

"Demons, angels, and a few humans, too. Dean, it was… it was like they were all coming after us, all trying to fight each other to get to us." Sam shudders, and Dean reaches out, wrapping a hand around his forearm with a reassuring squeeze. "I don't know what's going down, but it's big. And we're at the center of it."

Dean snorts out a laugh. "Yeah, so what else is new?"

Sam gives him a wry smile, but then his eyes go serious and dark. "I'm not joking, Dean. This happened in broad daylight, in the middle of the U.S. capitol. There were thousands of innocent bystanders who could've been killed. Hell, some of them probably were. Rami got us out of there so fast, I didn't…" Sam trails off, swallowing hard and looking away. "We gotta figure this out, Dean. We gotta stop it."

"We will," Dean says, with a certainly he does not feel. "We will."

**oOo**

Bobby sleeps for three days straight. They're running out of the food Ramiel brought, and cabin fever is setting in again, with a vengeance. When Bobby does finally wake, he takes one look at the soggy, stale cheeseburger Dean offers him, and bolts for the bathroom.

He doesn't remember much of the attack, and can't tell them anything more than Sam already has. They play cards for a while, until Dean gets so frustrated trying to teach Cas the rules he throws his hand down and storms across the room, yanking the refrigerator open so violently the hinges give a squeal of protest.

He sits on Bobby's bed and pouts, flipping through channels, each one with wall-to-wall news coverage of strange and violent attacks cropping up all over the country. The others start up a game of Texas Hold'em, and it turns out Cas has one hell of a poker face.

Just when Dean is ready to start climbing the walls again, Rami appears in a flutter of invisible wings, looking harried and out of breath. His leather coat is ripped at the shoulder, the sleeve hanging down limply over his hand, and there's a nasty-looking gash over his left eyebrow.

Sam is at his side in an instant, stripping off his hoodie and pressing the bunched-up fabric over Ramiel's eye.

"No, no, Samuel, it's all right. I'm all right," he says, brushing Sam's hand away. Dean watches, with the same surprise he feels every single time, as the wound closes and begins to fade.

"What happened to you?" Sam asks, and Dean wonders if he even realizes what he's doing when he lifts a hand to brush his fingers over Ramiel's now-smooth skin.

Ramiel looks a little thrown by Sam's touch, and he doesn't seem to hear the question. Finally, he shakes his head and Sam pulls his hand away, cheeks going vividly pink. Dean rolls his eyes and looks away, but he can't seem to find any righteous anger to dredge up over it, so he simply waves his hand to catch the angel's attention and says in a voice heavy with sarcasm, "So, if you two are done with your little chick flick moment, can we talk about what the fuck is going on?"

"We've got to get you out of here," Ramiel says, looking almost relieved that Dean has gotten them back on-topic.

"What is it?" Cas asks, laying his cards gently face-down on the bed, as if they might resume the game at any moment. Dean almost laughs, but he figures now is probably not the time.

"They know I'm hiding you. It's only a matter of time before they discover you here; if I'm going to cast protection wards around a new hiding place, we must get there quickly."

"Quentin's," Dean says immediately. "He's a hunter in Salt Lake City. That's where we were headed when you… y'know… dropped in. He'll take us in."

Sam is shaking his head, and Dean's a little annoyed that he's already shooting down the idea. "He's a _hunter_."

"That's what I just said," Dean grumbles, but beside him, Cas starts nodding, like Sam is making some stunning revelation.

"They'll come after him," Bobby chimes in, a worried look clouding his face. "Like they came after me. We'd be walking right into a trap."

"Unless they've already gotten to him," Cas says, and Bobby winces. Dean remembers they'd been good friends.

Ramiel looks up at that, face brightening. "That would be perfect," he says, and Dean is on his feet in an instant.

"You asshole," he growls, hand clenching into fists at his sides. "He's a hunter; he's one of us, and you just -"

"Calm yourself, Dean Winchester," Ramiel says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wish this Quentin no ill will. However, if they've already been there and found nothing, they would likely have moved on. It may be the safest place we could go."

Sam nods, and even though Dean doesn't like it one bit, it does sort of make sense.

"Fine," he assents, albeit grudgingly. "But if we get there and find an angel-demon convention going on, what's our Plan B?"

"There is no time for a Plan B," Ramiel says. "We'll just have to… wing it." He smiles a little as he says it, a lopsided grin that's aimed right at Sam.

"Cute," Dean says dryly.

"So," Sam says, ignoring them both, "how're we going to get there? Rami, can you just jet us all over with your mojo?"

Ramiel looks away, almost embarrassed. His cheeks color, and Dean wonders if that's his vessel's natural reaction, or if it's all Ramiel.

"My power is significantly diminished after this recent scuffle," he says, apologetically. "I could manage one of you, but not four."

"And there is no way in _hell _I'm leaving my baby in the parking lot," Dean adds emphatically.

Ramiel nods, looking thoughtful. "Very well, then. I will take Samuel with me, and the rest of you can follow in your vehicle."

"Oh, I don't think so," Dean begins, but Ramiel silences him with a raised eyebrow.

"What? Would you have us take our _nanny _with us again?" he asks, looking pointedly at Bobby.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Bobby says, and Dean shoots him a look that clearly says _traitor_.

"We don't have time to waste, Dean," Ramiel says, tapping a foot impatiently. "Decide."

"You okay with it, Sam?"

Sam nods quickly, and Dean looks away, not liking the expression of almost-excitement on Sam's face.

"Go on, then," Dean says, trying to sound like he doesn't care one way or another, and failing spectacularly. "We'll meet you there."

Ramiel is at Sam's side in the blink of an eye, and in another, the two of them are gone.

"Let's go," Dean says, picking up scattered clothes and shoving them into his duffle.

"Dean," Cas begins, cautiously, but Dean stops him with a look.

"Let's _go_," he says again, and Cas nods, a little disappointed, and then starts to pack his own bag.

Ten minutes later, they're out the door and back on the road.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **_So, we have the last of the exclusive Wincest we'll see here in this chapter. Next, we move on to threesomeland (well, in a few chapters, anyway)! Dean's a dick here, and really pretty fucked-up. Don't hate him though… I meant for him to be that way (blame me, it's all my fault)! This sets up the transition from Sam/Dean to Dean/Cas, but I promise that though this is pretty angst-heavy, it won't be like this all the time!_

**Disclaimer**: _I do not own, and I have nothing you want._

Sam still hasn't quite gotten used to traveling by angel, and it leaves him queasy and off-balance when Ramiel puts him down in Quentin's front yard. The angel steadies him with a hand on his arm, and it takes Sam a moment to realize he's leaning into the touch. Embarrassed, Sam shakes him off, ignoring his mildly hurt expression and charging up the porch stairs two at a time.

The stench of death and decay hits him as soon as he opens the door, a solid wave of putrescence that coats his nose and throat and clings there, choking him. He swallows down the rising bile and lifts his arm in front of his face, pressing his nose into the sleeve of his shirt. He casts a glance over his shoulder and sees Ramiel wrinkle his nose in distaste, but otherwise the angel shows no reaction.

Sam's hand is on the hilt of his knife as he creeps through the darkened hall. It's barely after nine in the morning, but the curtains are drawn and only thin cracks of sunlight penetrate the heavy fabric, sliding brokenly over the hardwood floor.

They find what's left of Quentin's body in the kitchen, twisted and mangled and covered in blood. It's not a shock, not really, and it's not the worst he's seen, but it turns Sam's stomach nonetheless, and before he can stop himself, he's stumbling to the sink and retching violently. Thoughts of others he's lost - Jo, Ellen, Ash,_ Adam_ - flash through his head, and it's too much, it's too fucking _much _-

There's a hand on his back then, still and soft, and suddenly there's warmth spreading all through him, erasing the nausea and relieving the stinging in his eyes and throat. Sam gives himself over to the comfort, knowing he probably ought to pull away, too far gone to give a damn. Ramiel's hand slides up his back and over his shoulder, and then the angel's arms are around him, pulling Sam back against his chest.

"I am sorry, Samuel," Rami says, close to his ear, and Sam takes a stuttering breath as a tear slips from the corner of his eye. Ramiel's arms tighten, and he presses his face in even closer. "Were you close with him?"

Sam shakes his head; his voice quavers when he finally speaks. "No. No, we only met a… a few times. He was close to Bobby, though. They were like… family." He feels Ramiel nod against his cheek, and it seems odd, that he notices the angel's warm breath against his skin.

"Family is very important to you, Samuel," Rami says, but there's a slight inflection at the end, like he's asking a question.

"Yeah," Sam says huskily. "If there's one thing I've learned over the last few years, it's that family is everything." Ellen and Jo and the others, they were family. They were the closest ties he had to this world, and he'd never even shed a tear over them. Then he thinks of Dean, how it felt to lose him back at the Mystery Spot, over and over again, thinks of the way he cried for him, held his lifeless body and sobbed, broken and helpless, every goddamn day. "There's nothing stronger than blood."

There's a sharp intake of breath from Ramiel, and then Sam feels him let it out, long and slow. "Nothing?" he whispers, and Sam isn't quite sure why that sends a shiver through him.

"Nothing," he confirms, leaning forward a little to brace his hands against the counter. It puts a few centimeters of space between him and Ramiel, and he feels cold, but his breath comes a little easier.

"You and your brother are… close," Ramiel says, and Sam feels his back straighten and go immediately tense. He does pull away then, shaking off Rami's arms and spinning around, though he can't quite meet the angel's intense golden gaze.

"You don't get to talk about that," he says gruffly, looking past Ramiel's arm at a spot on the linoleum. "Dean and me… that's not… that's none of your business."

"I apologize," Ramiel says stiffly, and when Sam finally looks at him, the angel's face is blank and shuttered. He glances down at the floor again, and that's when he notices Quentin's body is gone.

"What did you -?"

"I sent him into the backyard," Ramiel replies, voice empty and painfully polite. "You and your brother and Bobby can give him a proper burial when they arrive.

Sam swallows hard, wanting to reach out to Rami, hating that he wants it. "Thank you," he says, a little terse.

"You are welcome, Samuel."

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair, realizing he hasn't glanced in a mirror in days; he also hasn't showered.

"I think I'm gonna head upstairs and get cleaned up," he says, relieved to have an excuse to put some distance between the two of them.

Ramiel nods, a strand of fair hair falling into his face, making him look impossibly young. Finding it much more difficult to breathe, Sam turns on his heel and hightails it to the bathroom.

And he suddenly thinks he's fleeing a hell of a lot more than Quentin's death.

**oOo**

Sam is waiting at the door when Dean pulls up with Bobby and Cas, and he knows without asking that it isn't good news.

Still, he musters a little hope as he climbs the porch stairs and tugs open the screen door. "Quentin?" he asks, and Sam gives him a barely perceptible shake of the head. Dean lets out a long, pained whoosh of breath, and glances back at Bobby, worried about the older man.

"He's… we found him in the kitchen," Sam says, giving Bobby a sympathetic grimace. "I think… it looked like he wasn't expecting it, like it happened quick."

It's a lie, Dean knows, and he's grateful to Sam for telling it. Bobby, though, just frowns even deeper and blinks the shine out of his eyes, looking from Dean to Sam with the same mild disgust as always.

"Well?" he says, pushing past Dean and into the house. "You ladies gonna stand there and shoot the breeze, or are we gonna give him a hunter's send-off?"

Sam and Ramiel have already bound the body up in sturdy canvas, Dean is thankful to see, and there's a pile of wood in the backyard, taking the half-formed shape of a pyre. They work together to finish it, and by the afternoon it's ready to go.

Dean and Sam pick up Quentin's body and put it on the pyre, and Dean feels his stomach turn when he sees the film of red that's seeped through the canvas and onto his hands. He bends over and wipes them on the grass, then moves back so Bobby can step forward and douse the wood and the body with lighter fluid.

They watch it burn, flames licking into the bright afternoon sky, stark and obtrusive against the slow-moving clouds, and Dean is just sick to fucking _death _of doing this. He leans in close to Sam, and Sam leans back, sharing his space, sharing his thoughts, sharing whatever modicum of comfort they're able to take from each other.

"Where's Rami?" he asks eventually, and he feels Sam's shoulder tense against him.

"Reading," he says, voice a little strained. "He's going through Quentin's old texts, see if there's anything there we don't already know."

Dean nods, then casts a glance over at Cas, whose eyes are fixed unwaveringly on the flickering fire. His face is pale and drawn, Dean can tell, even under the reddish cast from the heat and flames, and he knows Cas isn't used to dealing with this stuff in human form - the smell, the blood, the _loss_. He may not have ever met Quentin, but Dean knows he understands their side's taken a big hit, knows they've lost another ally.

Cas's eyes are wide and fever-bright, almost purple in the reflected firelight, and it strikes Dean how fucking _scared _he must be, powerless and out of control and painfully awkward in this limited form.

He moves to Cas's side, and Cas slides his gaze over without moving his head, the way he always did in angel form, and it's silly, that such a small thing as that should be a balm to Dean's soul, but it is.

"How you holdin' up?" he asks, nudging Cas's arm, smirking when he realizes once again _he's _the one invading Cas's personal space.

"Holding…?" Cas asks, turning to Dean with a perplexed expression, then looking down at his empty hands.

Dean smiles, and it feel like the first time in _years_. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh," Cas smiles a little, too, but it drops from his face almost immediately. "Hungry. Tired. And…"

"And what?"

Cas shakes his head. "I don't know. Restless. Frustrated. Like… my skin is crawling, and I want to scratch it, but there is no itch." Cas looks down, embarrassed and irritated, and Dean claps a hand against his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

"It's gonna be tough, adjusting to being human," he says, and Cas nods dejectedly. "It's gotta feel pretty strange."

"I never…" Cas begins, then trails off, cheeks going pink. "I never experienced any of this with Jimmy. I could feel what my vessel was feeling, if I allowed it, but it was nothing like this. I never knew real hunger, or pain. I never ached… I - Dean, I'm always _feeling _something."

There's something so plaintive, so despondent in his voice, and Dean has trouble ignoring the little flutter it causes somewhere deep in his chest.

Shaking it off, Dean nods, plastering a fake smile on his face and nudging Cas until he looks up at him. "Let's start with getting some dinner in you, and we'll go from there, okay?"

"Yes," Cas says simply, and allows Dean to usher him through the back door and into the kitchen.

Sam and Bobby trail in behind them, and Sam goes through the pantry, putting together something like a passable meal. Bobby pours them each a shot of Johnny Walker Black, and if any of them notices his hand tremble when he raises his glass, none of them mentions it.

"To Quentin," he says gruffly. "One hell of a fuckin' hunter."

"To Quentin," Dean and Sam say in unison. Even Cas clinks his glass against theirs and takes the shot, wincing a little as it goes down.

Dean shuts his eyes, relishing the burn, and when Bobby pours another round, he doesn't object.

Half an hour later, Dean has a pretty good buzz going, and Cas's eyes are glazed and he's swaying a little in his chair. He asks Bobby to pour him another, but Dean slides his hand over the top of his glass, shaking his head at Bobby, who's got the bottle in hand and is ready to tip out another shot.

"I think you've had enough there, tiger," he says, giving Cas a gentle smile.

The former angel wrinkles his nose and gives Dean a disgusted look. "I am not a child, Dean," he says, and Dean's pretty impressed that his words are only moderately slurred.

"I know that, Cas."

"This body is well above the legal drinking age."

Dean's lip twitches and he feels a chuckle building down deep in his belly, though he tries to keep it suppressed.

"Yeah, I get that, but you've never been drunk as a human. Trust me, Cas, hangovers are a bitch."

"You are right about that, bro," Sam says with a little snort, tipping the bottom of his glass against Dean's, and Dean wonders how much _he's _had.

"I'm going upstairs," Cas says abruptly, scooting his chair back and pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.

"Whoa, buddy," Dean says, putting out a hand to steady him. "Why don't you let me help you?"

"I do not require your assistance!" Cas snaps, yanking his arm away from Dean's grasp, stumbling back a few steps. "I'm going to take a shower," he announces, shoving his chair under the table with more force than necessary.

"Cas -"

"I stink of burning flesh," he mutters, then stalks out of the room.

Ramiel walks in a moment later, a battered old leather book tucked under his arm. He looks at Sam and cocks an eyebrow. "Did Mom and Dad have a fight?"

"Kiss my ass, Rami," Dean growls, then shoots Sam a glare.

"What?" Sam says, holding back a smile. "_I _didn't say anything."

Dean shakes his head. "I'd better go check on him." He looks up and finds Bobby and Sam looking at him askance. Rami's eyebrow is still up, and there's a wicked glint in his eye. "What?"

"Uh," Sam says, then clears his throat. "Don't you think maybe Cas needs a little space, Dean? A little privacy?"

"Yeah, and maybe if he wasn't drunk off his ass and stumbling around like an idiot, I'd give it to him."

Sam sighs, and Dean is starting to get pretty royally pissed. "I'm just saying," Sam continues, "you've sorta been hovering over him like a mother hen. Maybe cut him some slack. He's not totally helpless, you kn-"

"He _is_," Dean says, slamming one hand down on the table top. "He wouldn't know how to take a piss if it weren't for me holding his goddamn hand, Sam. He did this for… it's _my _fault he's like this."

"He's not broken, Dean," Sam says gently. "He's _human_."

Dean huffs out a humorless laugh. "Same difference," he says bitterly.

Sam looks at him pityingly, and Dean bristles. His fingers curl into fists, itching to punch something.

"Dude," Sam says, reaching across the table like he wants to touch Dean, then pulling his hand back at the last minute, "just let the guy take a shower in peace, okay?"

"He probably doesn't even know how to work the damn thing," Dean says, standing up and carrying his dishes to the sink, keeping his back firmly to the table. "Think what you want, Sammy. You say I'm babying him, I say I'm keeping him alive. Maybe if I'd done the same with you…"

"What? I wouldn't have gone all darkside?" Sam laughs. "Get real, Dean. That was always -"

"Maybe you wouldn't have died," Dean says, spinning around and pinning Sam with a glare. "Maybe Yellow Eyes wouldn't have gotten close enough to take a crack at you. Maybe -"

"Dean -"

"Forget it." Dean throws up his hands in defeat and storms out of the kitchen, finished arguing about it. Sam can bitch and moan all he wants; Dean isn't going to just sit by and watch Cas flounder through this new life like some invalid or naïve child.

He hears the shower running when he hits the upstairs hallway, and he smiles a little to himself. The bastard figured it out after all.

He tiptoes toward the bathroom door, figuring he'll just make sure Cas isn't boiling off his skin or giving himself hypothermia or something. He taps on the door, leaning forward as it creaks open a few centimeters.

"Cas? Cas, you got everything you need?"

Dean pushes the door open, thinking he'll take a quick peek in and then disappear, and no one will be the wiser. He doesn't take into account the possibility that Cas might not be _in _the shower. He doesn't take into account the possibility that Cas might really need some personal time, because along with learning how to eat and drink and use the bathroom, Cas is learning _everything _about being human, including certain baser needs.

It also never occurs to him to shut the door and pretend this never happened when he sees Cas standing in front of the sink, bare from the waist down, braced against the counter with one hand while the other moves in a distinct and familiar rhythm in front of him.

Dean doesn't even realize he's made a sound until Cas turns and looks over his shoulder, eyes going round with surprise and shock and something like shame.

"Dean," he says, all low and growly, and Dean, god help him, is rooted to the spot, unable to move forward or run away, not even sure which option he'd pick if he could. He can't speak, and Cas is looking at him like he holds all the goddamn answers, like he's finally seen the face of God and it looks a helluva lot like Dean Winchester, and Dean thinks that must be a real fuckin' letdown.

"Dean," Cas says again, sucking in a gasp, and Dean has to _go, _has to get out of there before he…

"Dean," Cas whispers, closing his eyes and buckling forward, and Dean is outta there, slamming the door behind him and bolting into the bedroom at the end of the hall. He shuts the door and leans against it, breathing in long, ragged gasps.

Sam is crouched on the floor, digging through his duffle. "Just looking for a clean shirt," he says, giving Dean an absent smile. "Cas okay?"

Dean stares at him through narrowed eyes, heart pounding in his throat, his entire body pulsing with something… some sort of _need_.

Sam looks up then, a little expectantly, and his expression turns from mildly amused to concerned when he takes in Dean's current state.

"Uh, _you _okay?" he asks, getting to his feet. He takes a step toward Dean, but Dean is across the room in a flash, pressing himself into Sam's chest, burying his face in Sam's neck, breathing in his familiar scent of soap and cotton like it's his last link to sanity.

"Dean," Sam says, pushing him back a little with a startled laugh. "What're you -?"

But then Dean is pushing forward again, mouth against Sam's, hot and demanding and searching, and Sam freezes for a minute, but then he's pressing back, mouth opening under Dean's insistent tongue, a soft moan slipping out between them.

Sam backs them up a few paces, then grips Dean's biceps, pulling him away. Dean growls when Sam forces some distance between them, but he holds Dean fast, not letting him move. Sam watches him for a long moment, eyes dark with desire and confusion, and his gaze is almost like a physical touch, moving over Dean from neck to knees. Sam tilts his head, narrowing his eyes as if judging something, as if he's making some sort of decision.

Then, before Dean can blink, Sam is slamming him into the wall, devouring his mouth, hands tracing paths of fire along Dean's torso. Dean arches into the touch, wanting more and wanting it _now_. He manages to get his hands onto Sam's shoulders, and he's pushing down, hard and insistent.

Sam gets the idea, sinking to his knees and looking up at Dean almost angrily. Dean leans his head against the wall, breathing hard through his nose and letting his eyes close as Sam yanks open his belt buckle.

"Yeah," he whispers brokenly, as Sam undoes his fly and shoves his jeans and boxers down around his knees, fisting his cock fast and hard without any precursor. "Please."

He doesn't look down, but he feels the warmth of Sam's mouth close around him, and then everything goes blissfully hazy and dim. Dean concentrates only on the sensations, the heat and the pressure and the gorgeous slow slide of Sam's lips up and down, until everything else fades away. There is no face behind his eyelids, no voice in his ears, no name hanging on his tongue; there is only this, only this moment, only this feeling.

And Dean isn't going to think about what happens when it's over.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **_Sorry for the long break, but life has gotten a little crazy, and I haven't had as much time for writing. Glad to have this finished, though it turned out better than I expected, and I was glad to get some for-real action in here! Next, we move onto threesome-land, so stay tuned for that!_

**Disclaimer**: _Not mine. Why do you think I cry at night?_

Dean won't look at him. Sam had thought that maybe it was all in his head, until Bobby had given him a questioning look over Dean's shoulder that morning at breakfast. Sam had just shrugged a shoulder and looked down at his bacon uncomfortably. Dean isn't looking at Cas, either, and while it doesn't make any damn sense to Sam, at least he doesn't feel quite so alone.

There's tension in the air, and it buzzes and crackles and itches along the back of Sam's neck until he's jumpier than a skittish cat. Cas tiptoes around like he's walking through a field of land mines all day, and when Sam corners him getting a glass of water in the kitchen and asks what the hell is going on, he gets so wide-eyed and flustered that Sam takes pity on him and lets the whole thing drop.

It's late in the afternoon when Ramiel calls them all into the den. He's sitting at Quentin's desk, surrounded by stacks of leather-bound books and crinkled vellum, the chrome desk lamp throwing his features into a sharp contrast of light and shadow. Sam catches himself staring, and then catches Dean catching him, and he coughs into his hand and ducks into a chair in the corner, slouching down and trying to be unassuming.

Ramiel folds his hands on the desk and gives them all a serious look. "What do you know about the prophet Matthias?" he says without precursor.

"That the guy who predicted Apocalypse: the sequel?" Dean asks, casting a glance over at Bobby, who gives him a brief nod.

"It is," Ramiel says, a frown creasing his brow and thinning his lips. "It was he I was trying to reach when I was accosted yesterday."

"They wouldn't let you see him?" Cas asks, leaning forward with a worried look on his face. "We have always been allowed access to the prophets."

"Need I remind you, brother," Ramiel mouth twisting into a cruel smirk, "that _we_ no longer includes _you_?"

"_Hey_," Dean says, a warning tone in his voice, as Cas shoots up out of his chair, hands bunched into fists at his sides.

"You gave up any claim you might have held on the heavenly realm when you Fell for _him_," Ramiel says, tipping his head at Dean. Sam looks over just in time to see Dean's ears go scarlet, though his face remains impassive and stony.

"I Fell to earth so I could warn the Winchesters of what was coming," Cas growls, lifting his chin stubbornly and taking a step forward. "That includes Sam."

Ramiel's smirk falters for a bare second, and then it's back in full-force so quickly, Sam wonders if he imagined it was ever really gone.

"The fact remains, Castiel, that you are no longer one of the Host. It would be wise to remember that."

"It would be wise for you to remember to kiss my -" Cas begins, but then Dean puts a hand on his arm, and the former angels goes instantly quiet.

Cas sits down with a huff, and Sam looks over just in time to see the corner of Bobby's mouth twitching. He feels a smile of his own stretching his lips, and suddenly a little of the tension in the room has dissipated. Sam sits back in his chair, breathing a little easier, and even Ramiel looks mildly impressed that Cas hadn't backed down.

"May we get on to business?" he asks a moment later, and the rest of them nod. "Good. As it seems you are aware, Matthias prophesied this war, contingent, of course, upon Sam being brought back from the pit." Ramiel looks down as he says this, and Sam can't quite read the expression on his face. "I had hoped to glean more information from Matthias on what is yet to come, but I was rebuffed by his personal guard."

"He's being guarded in _heaven_?" Cas says, and though Sam doesn't understand the significance of that, he can tell it's bad. "What are they protecting him from?"

"Me, apparently," Ramiel says dryly. He sighs. "Truthfully, I do not know. The Host is not yet aware of my alliance with you. It does not make sense that they would try to keep me from the prophet."

"Unless he's keepin' a secret for the Big Guy himself," Bobby says. "Maybe _no one _knows whatever it is he's hiding."

Ramiel looks affronted. "I am one of the oldest beings in the Host," he says. "My Father shaped my wings with His hands and breathed His own breath into my lungs. I served for millennia in His own personal guard; there is nothing He would keep from me."

"Maybe he ain't callin' the shots anymore," Bobby grumbles, and Cas snorts.

Ramiel's face is livid, and Sam knows he's got to get a handle on the situation before it spins out of control again.

"Bottom line is, we've gotta talk to this Matthias, and find out what he knows," he interjects quickly, relieved when Cas and Ramiel both nod.

"Well," Dean says, slapping his palms together, "let's get this show on the road then. Rami, where do we find this joker?"

"Matthias does not like jokes," Ramiel says, and Sam bites back a laugh. Dean opens his mouth to retort, then shakes his head, apparently thinking better of it.

"He was in the Garden, last I saw him," Ramiel continues, shuffling through some of the papers cluttered on the desk. "But he was hidden from me. There's a cave - it is rumored to be the very place the Serpent hid after tempting Eve, before he was banished from Eden. I believe he's holed up there."

"So how do we get there?" Bobby asks, and Ramiel shakes his head.

"We don't. Death is the only avenue to Heaven for all of you, and the chances of any of you actually getting there are highly unlikely." Dean makes a face at that, but Sam has to admit Rami has a point; they've got one former-vessel-of-Satan, Hell's one-time Dungeon Master, a Fallen angel who's pissed off pretty much everyone in Heaven and Hell and everywhere in between, and a hunter who's soul belongs to an ambiguously gay demon.

"Go team," Sam mutters, not realizing he's spoken aloud until everyone turns to look at him.

"We must lure Matthias to us," Ramiel says, giving Sam an odd look before turning back to the pages in front of him. "The Garden is only accessible to me, but with this map, I may be able to find the Serpent's cave. If I can somehow get a message to Matthias, I may be able to lead him to the holding room."

"The what?" Dean asks.

"The Beautiful Room," Cas says, a distasteful look on his face. "Zachariah's masterpiece. It's still there?" he asks Ramiel.

"Yes. And if we can get him inside…"

"He won't be able to leave," Cas finishes.

"Not without help, at least," Ramiel says, and Sam doesn't like the ominous sound of that.

Dean nods. "All right. Time's wastin'. How do we get there?"

"My Grace is replenished enough for me to carry you there, and Bobby, too. It is too dangerous for my brother to venture that close to the Heavenly realm; Samuel can remain here with him."

"Like _hell -" _Cas says, sounding more like Dean every day, and it throws Sam so much it takes him a moment to process what Ramiel has said.

"Wait, _what_?" Sam says, pushing himself out of his seat and crossing to the desk. "Why the hell would I stay here? You need me."

"What I need is for you to remain here with Castiel and to not question my authority, Samuel."

"Fuck your authority," Sam says, leaning over and bracing his hands on the desk. "I can fight, Ramiel. You know they're not going to just hand Matthias over on a silver platter. You _need _me," Sam repeats, and Ramiel's jaw clenches so hard Sam can see the vein jumping at his temple.

"Leave us," Ramiel says, and it's clear he means everyone but Sam, even though his eyes never leave Sam's face. Sam stares back, though he sees Bobby out of the corner of his eye, ushering a very annoyed Dean and a very pissed off Cas out of the room.

Ramiel stays quiet until they're gone, and then he stands up slowly, pulling himself up to his full height and looking at Sam with a silent challenge in his eyes.

"You should not disobey me, Samuel."

Sam pushes himself away from the desk, pacing to the other side of the room with a frustrated laugh. "You're full of shit, Rami, you know that?"

"I did not haul your ungrateful ass out of the pit only to die fighting a senseless battle."

"No," Sam sneers, whirling on him. "You dragged me out to fulfill the prophecy that started this whole cluster fuck in the first place."

Ramiel's expression doesn't change, but Sam thinks he sees a flicker of something deep in the angel's golden eyes. Sam clenches his jaw, then, shaking his head, turns toward the door.

"Do not walk away from me, Samuel," Ramiel warns, voice low and threatening in a way that sends a shiver up Sam's spine.

"I've already got an overbearing big brother, Rami," Sam says, facing the doorway, head turned over his shoulder. "I don't need another one."

Sam blinks, and suddenly Ramiel is at his back, almost-but-not-quite touching him, his nose just millimeters away from Sam's cheek.

"Then what _do _you need, Samuel?" he hisses, breath ghosting over the shell of Sam's ear.

"Nothing," Sam whispers, a little unsteady. "From you, nothing."

"You'll be killed," Ramiel says, and Sam feels him trail a finger up his back in a feather-light touch.

Sam swallows, hard. "Then I'll have died fighting."

"It will all have been for naught," Ramiel says, curling his fingers around Sam's shoulder so tight it hurts. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to flinch, and finally, a long moment later, the pressure lessens, and Sam can breathe again.

"No," Sam says, and Ramiel slides his hand away.

"Have it your way," he says, voice clipped and full of frost that chills Sam all over.

"I always do," he says, turning to face the angel, hoping he doesn't look as shaken as he feels. 

Ramiel won't meet his gaze. "You are a selfish man, Samuel Winchester. You are misguided and reckless and horribly overconfident of your abilities."

Sam shrugs. "That's what they tell me."

"You will be your own downfall."

"Or yours," Sam says, then sucks in a breath, not sure why he's said that.

Ramiel doesn't even flinch, but when he looks at Sam, his eyes are burning hotter than Sam's ever seen.

"You already are, Sam."

**oOo**

The Beautiful Room is not so beautiful anymore. The walls are stained yellow, and Dean can see the plaster chipping in the corners. Spider webs are strung from wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor, and thick gray dust hangs like a carpet over every surface. Dean isn't sure if it's because of a lack of physical upkeep, or if it's some sort of psychic reflection of the state of Heaven right now. Either way, it gives him a creepy-crawly feeling at the base of his spine, and he doesn't like it one damn bit.

He's sitting across from Cas, trying to find a comfortable spot on the sagging, broken-down loveseat, while Sam and Bobby guard the door, waiting for Ramiel to return with Matthias.

"You shouldn't have come," Dean says for the hundredth time, and he's sick of saying it, so he knows Cas must be sick of hearing it.

The scowl the former angel gives him confirms his suspicion. "I can fight, Dean. I have not forgotten everything about my former life."

Dean shakes his head, swiping a finger through the grime on the coffee table and then wiping it disgustedly on his jeans. "You might remember the moves, Cas, but you don't have the mojo to back them up."

"I am not a nineteen pound weakling!"

"I think you mean _ninety _pound weakling," Dean says, and Cas jumps out of his chair.

"Do not tell me what I mean!" he shouts, drawing concerned looks from Sam and Bobby. Dean grimaces and gives them a _what're you gonna do? _shrug, and finally, they look away.

"Cas -"

"I have had enough of you telling me what to do," Cas growls, sinking back into his seat and leaning forward so the others can't hear. "I pulled _you_ out of Hell, remember? I have watched lifetimes go by, I have seen centuries come and go, thousands of them, before you were even a speck inside your mother's womb. I have watched the rise and fall of empires, I have seen entire nations crumble and be rebuilt." Cas pauses for breath, and Dean hears the tiny catch before he speaks again. "I rebuilt _you_, limb by limb, infusing every one of your cells with my essence, with my life. I have seen the very best and the very worst of humanity, and I have seen both in you, Dean. So do not think I am naïve. Do not think I am weak. And do not think I cannot do this without you."

Dean sits there, dumbstruck, unable to construct any sort of coherent response, unable to think at all past the echoing of Cas's last words in his head. To his horror, he feels a burn in the back of his throat, and he looks away quickly before Cas can see his eyes go bright.

"Sorry," he mutters, knowing it's pretty lame as far as apologies go, but he sees Cas relax out of the corner of his eye, shoulders going slack as he leans back in his chair. Dean swallows down the lump in his throat, and when he looks back at Cas, there's an expression of peaceful calm on his face.

"Cas, I really -"

"Be quiet, Dean," Cas says, and so Dean is. Something between them has broken, but not in a bad way. More like the breaking of a fever, or a dam that's been holding back fresh, life-giving water. Dean doesn't know how he knows that, but it's a feeling as bone-deep as his love for Sam, or his respect for Bobby, and so he accepts it without question. Whatever this feeling is, it's simple and pure and easy, and right now, that's enough.

Dean doesn't get much chance to revel in this new peace, because suddenly the room is filled with flashing light and an earsplitting buzz that's followed by the sound of screams. Dean is on his feet and moving in an instant, running to the center of the room, where Ramiel is locked in a violent collision with no fewer than eight angels.

He charges, Cas right beside him, and sees Sam and Bobby leap into the fray from the other side. He kicks out hard at the nearest angel, a girl with waist-length blonde hair and eyes the color of the sea after a storm. She rounds on him, mouth open wide as she shouts out what can only be a war cry, pulling a twelve-inch dagger from a sheath around her thigh.

Dean dodges the first thrust, coming back with a punch that snaps her head to the side for a brief second, giving him the time he needs to yank his own knife out of his pants. Her eyes widen when she recognizes the angel-made weapon, and Dean reminds himself to thank Ramiel, cocky bastard though he is, for bringing them an arsenal guaranteed to do some serious damage to his brethren.

"Where did you get that?" she hisses, crouching down low in a fighting stance and eyeing the knife warily.

"This?" Dean says, flicking the knife casually in his hand. "Oh, this is nothing. _This_, on the other hand," he says, reaching over his shoulder and unsheathing the sword strapped to his back, "this is probably going to fuck your shit up."

"We are betrayed," she says, as Dean begins to circle her, the tip of his sword pointed directly at her throat. "Hand Ramiel over to us, fight with us, and we may let you live."

"Yeah, that's a fantastic offer and all," Dean says, moving the blade forward until it makes contact with the hollow of her throat, a tiny ruby-red bead of blood appearing there, "but I'm gonna go ahead and say hell no, angel-bitch."

She smirks, though Dean can see there's fear in her eyes. "You may have your shiny toys to protect you, _Winchester_, but you do not have our strength." With that, she kicks the sword away and launches herself at Dean so fast he can barely move before she's on him, clawing and spitting like a wildcat, and it's all he can do to keep his grip tight on the sword hilt. The knife has gone skittering away under the coffee table, and she smiles in triumph as she knocks Dean to the ground, her weight like a ton of bricks on top of him so that he's barely able to breathe.

He can hear the shouts of the others and the clank of metal on metal, but it fades into a dull buzz as the angel presses down, crushing his lungs. His consciousness is ebbing fast, and there are spots dancing in front of his darkening vision. Gathering up the last of his strength, Dean tightens his grip on the sword, then swings it up, slamming the hilt against her temple, feeling the sickening crunch of bone as she hurtles off of him and tumbles into a chair, eyes closed and unmoving.

Sucking in a pained breath, Dean pulls himself to his feet, keeping his hand wrapped around the sword. Across the room, Sam and Bobby are taking on three angels, backing them into the corner before thrusting their knives up through two of the angels' throats, a blinding white light pouring out as they shudder and fall. The third tries to struggle free, but Bobby uses his sword to hold him down as Sam finishes the job.

Cas is fighting a burly-looking angel with arms as big around as his head, their swords colliding with such force they're sending off sparks of golden light. Pressing a hand to his stomach, Dean limps up behind the angel, still finding it hard to get a deep breath. Before the angel can sense his presence, Dean has grabbed his freakishly huge arms, pinning him in place. He can't hold him more than a second, but it's enough for Cas to regroup, pushing forward with his knife, and Dean has to lean his head back as the blade sinks through the angel's neck and out the other side, blood-streaked metal inches from Dean's face.

They turn to where Ramiel is battling the last two angels, a woman and a man, with a sword in each hand. Dean takes pause, a little in awe, and wonders vaguely if Ramiel can teach him to fight like that.

Sam is charging forward into the mix, as the angels begin to overpower Ramiel. The man turns and holds out a hand, and Sam goes flying across the room, slamming into the wall and sinking down with a dazed expression on his face. Bobby runs to his side, checking him over, and Dean blinks, feeling the room start to sway.

He barely hears Cas asking, "Are you all right, Dean?" and then he notices that he's still seeing those same spots in front of his eyes. He looks over at Ramiel, and see that the woman has him down on his knees. The man's foot is on his wrist, keeping that sword flat against the floor, and the woman kicks the other one out of his hand.

Sam crawls forward, pulling himself toward Ramiel just as the woman lowers a hand to the angel's forehead.

"Rami!" Sam shouts, reaching out and grasping at air as the three angels vanish in a flurry of air and debris.

Bobby picks Sam up off the ground, helping him to his feet. Sam looks shellshocked, staring at the spot where Ramiel disappeared like he can't figure out what happened.

Dean is aware of a hand on his arm, and he looks down, feeling a little detached. His head is as light as a balloon, floating up somewhere above his body, and while he knows he's feeling pain, it isn't really registering in his brain.

He lifts his arm and coughs into his elbow, huge, wracking heaves that shake him from head to foot, and when he pulls his arm away, he's a little startled to see bright red blood staining his sleeve.

"That's not good," he says, listing over to the side. Cas's arm is around him, and Dean can hear his panicked voice calling his name over and over.

"S'okay," he says dreamily, closing his eyes. "Just gonna sleep now, okay?"

Cas's hand is on his face, and Dean thinks that feels kinda nice, but sleep feels even better, so when the blackness rushes up to meet him, he sinks into it, grateful for the reprieve.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N**: _Well, here it is: the highly-anticipated (by me, anyway) THREESOME. Eep. It's my first ever, so please be kind, though constructive criticism is always appreciated. This is the big shift into Cas/Dean, so hop aboard, Destiel-ers! The train just pulled into your station!_

**Disclaimer**: _Not mine, because if they were, I would make them do this. Every. Day._

"In here," Sam says urgently, kicking open the door to the spare bedroom. Dean can't see much in the moonlight glimmering through the curtains, and it's a hell of a lot of effort to hold his eyelids open anyway, so he stops trying. He lets his head drop back against Sam's shoulder, soaking in the warmth of his baby brother's arms, wound tightly around him.

"The bed," Cas says, and Dean smiles. Cas is here, too, and that's right. That's as it should be. He hears something, a frantic scurrying and then a rustling, like fabric on fabric. He hears Sam say, "Thanks, Bobby," and then he's being lowered onto the mattress, and it's like heaven, only with fewer dick angels and better lower back support.

"You reckon we oughtta take him to the ER?" Bobby says, as Dean sinks back into the pillows, a cool hand at the nape of his neck guiding him down, down, until he's surrounded by weightless cotton warmth. Dean doesn't want to go to the ER, and he thinks about saying so, but Cas answers for him.

"No, it's too big a risk."

Good ol' Cas, Dean thinks. Solid as a rock.

"Yeah, and so is letting him bleed to death from the inside out," Bobby says, and Dean frowns. There's something not right about that. How else can anyone bleed to death, if not from the inside out? He wants to mention this, but then there's a damp washcloth pressed to his forehead, and it feels so good he can't concentrate on anything else.

"We'll keep an eye on him, Bobby," Sam says, and Dean feels his brother's familiar fingers stroking down his cheek. He turns his face into the touch, even though a part of his brain is telling him maybe he shouldn't be doing that when there are other people around. But the part of his brain doing the talking is far away and quiet, like speaking to someone over a bad cell connection, and so Dean decides to end the call.

"You want me to sit up with him for a while so you two can get some rest?" Bobby asks, and even Dean is surprised when he's met with two adamant _No's_.

"See what you can find downstairs in the den," Sam says. "Maybe there's a clue in one of Quentin's maps about where they could've taken Ramiel."

Bobby doesn't answer, but Dean hears the soft sound of muffled footsteps, and then the snick of the door as it shuts behind him. There's silence for a long moment, and Dean amuses himself by picking out two very different breathing patterns in the room; Sam's, slow and sure and steady, lulling Dean closer and closer to the edge of unconsciousness, and Cas's, quicker, harsher and a little raspy, like he's just run up and down a flight of stairs.

"He'll be okay, man," Sam says, and it takes Dean a minute to figure out he's talking about _him_. "He's been through worse."

"I know," Cas says, voice so low it barely registers. "I just… I cannot heal him this time. I cannot fix this."

"M'fine," Dean mumbles, struggling to sit up, and holy _hell_, does that hurt. But the pain radiating throughout his middle is nothing compared to the pain he feels at the empty, hollowed out sound of Cas's voice, so Dean swallows down a gasp and forces himself upright, opening his eyes when he feels two sets of hands helping him up.

Sam is next to him, eyes wide with concern, but there's a grin stretching his mouth, and it's probably the best thing Dean's seen in _years_. He grins back, or tries to, but it really fucking hurts, and he's starting to wonder just how much stuffing was beat out of him back there.

"You scared the shit out of us, bro," Sam says, and Dean shrugs a shoulder, only wincing a little when it sends a spike of pain down his arm.

"Gotta… keep you on your toes… Sammy," he says, amazed at the energy it takes just to form the words. He feels exhausted after he speaks, but Sam's face is radiant, and that makes it worth the pain.

He looks down the bed, to where Cas is sitting at the foot of the mattress, twisting the paisley printed sheet in his fingers. He looks absolutely wrecked, eyes sunken and half-wild, mouth turned down at the corners, lips ghostly white.

"Hey," Dean rasps, nudging Cas's hip with his foot, relieved to feel no pain with the movement. "Who shot your puppy?"

Cas looks up at him, confused as all hell. "I don't have any pets," he says, then looks at Sam for translation.

"He means, you look like someone just murdered your best friend," Sam says, and Cas's expression goes from confused to appalled in a heartbeat as he looks at Dean like there might be a firing squad crouching behind the headboard.

"Just… an expression," Dean says, rolling his eyes at Sam, who shrugs apologetically. "What happened?"

"How much do you remember?" Sam asks, and Dean shakes his head.

"Angels… _dicks_. A lot of 'em. They all dead?"

Cas nods. "All but the two who took Ramiel."

Dean looks over at Sam just in time to see the pained look flit across his face before it's gone, replaced with a look of concern that's meant only for Dean.

"That blonde bitch sure put the whammy on me," Dean says, rubbing a hand over his chest. Even the barest touch sends spasms of pain through him, radiating from back to neck, and Dean shuts his eyes, suddenly feeling a little queasy.

"You went down pretty hard, and that floor's made of solid marble. She was crushing your lungs," Sam explains, putting a hand gently on his wrist, one of the few spans of flesh on his body that's free of bruises. "We think there's internal bleeding," he says, but he doesn't get any farther, because Dean is seized by a coughing fit that shakes him to the core, leaving him gasping and wheezing at the blinding pain.

Sam's arms are around him, propping him up as Cas presses the sheet up to his mouth. Dean sputters and spits, breathing raggedly, tears trailing hotly down his cheeks. Cas pulls the sheet away after a moment, and he tries to bunch it up quickly, but Dean sees the blood there, seeping into the fabric and staining it crimson.

"Maybe Bobby's right," Sam says, running a hand lightly up and down Dean's back, careful not to put too much pressure on the tender flesh. "Maybe we ought to get him to the hospital."

Cas nods, looking dejected and worried, and Dean feels an ache build up inside him that has nothing to do with his injuries.

"Hey, could be worse," he says, trying for light-hearted and missing the mark sharply. "'Least I won't have any scars this time."

Cas's head shoots up at that, a spark kindling in his eyes before blazing to life, and Dean has to catch his breath.

"The scar," Cas breathes, a look of wonder dawning on his face. "I should have thought…"

Sam looks over at Cas, confusion furrowing his brows. "What scar?"

"The handprint," Cas says, and Sam's eyes go wide.

"Do you think -?"

"It's worth a try. There may still be traces of my Grace left in it. It was formed out of our connection when I dragged Dean from Hell. If we forge that connection again…"

"It may give you the juice you need to heal him," Sam finishes, and Cas nods, the relief on his face so intense and open Dean feels his cheeks flush just looking at him.

"Hey, I'll try anything once," Dean says rakishly, giving Cas a lopsided grin. Cas's smile fades, and he looks away, swallowing and staring down at the stained sheet still bunched in his hands.

"Help me get him undressed," Sam says, reaching over toward Dean and unbuttoning his flannel.

"Whoa there, Chuckles," Dean says, raising his arms up in protest, though he can't get them higher than an inch or two without sucking in a ragged hiss. "Aren't you at least gonna buy me dinner first?"

Sam huffs a laugh, warm and damp against the side of Dean's face, and he tips his head a little to the side so that Sam's lips brush his temple.

"Well, you've still got your sparkling wit," he says lightly, but his voice is low and soft as he moves his lips over the curve of Dean's ear. "I think you'll live."

"Good to know," Dean says, shivering a little as Sam's fingers deftly work to remove his shirt. He looks down at the foot of the bed, to where Cas's gaze is still firmly averted. "Cas here's no Dr. Sexy," he says, "… but I think he'll do."

Cas glances up, giving Dean a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Sam is tugging at Dean's belt loop, and it takes Dean a second to figure out what he wants.

"Dude. The scar's on my _shoulder_. Try to take advantage of a situation much, Sammy?"

Sam rolls his eyes, ignoring Dean and flipping open the button of his jeans. "This might take a lot out of you, Dean," he says, sliding down the zipper, a little too slowly for Dean's comfort. "You're barely conscious now, and I don't want to have to pry you out of these once you're asleep."

Dean wants to make a joke, but Sam's got a point, and he really is sleepy, so he just nods and shimmies his hips as much as he's able, and Sam helps him wriggle out of the jeans. Once he's clad in nothing more than boxers and a white tank, Sam slides behind him, one leg on either side of Dean's hips, his chest a solid and warm presence at Dean's back.

"Just brace yourself against me, and squeeze my hand if it hurts," he murmurs into the space between Dean's neck and shoulder, and Dean nods, dropping his hand to cover Sam's on the bed.

Cas pushes up the sleeves on the overlarge shirt he borrowed from Dean that morning, and crawls onto the bed between Dean's legs. The sight steals Dean's breath, not that he had much left to take anyway, and he closes his eyes, a nervous flutter blooming to life in his belly.

There's a hand, warm and soft on his forearm, and Dean breathes a little easier. This is Cas, _his _Cas, and there's no reason for worry or doubt or fear.

The hand slides up Dean's skin, inch by inch, and Cas's touch is so feather-light it tickles a little, but it's soothing, too, and Dean tips his head back, resting against Sam's shoulder and enjoying the sensation. Cas pauses just below the scar, and Dean can hear his sharp intake of breath. Dean takes a breath too, shallow and painful, and when he lets it out, Cas is curling his hand over the scar, fitting his fingers along the raised flesh as if they were always meant to be there.

Dean isn't prepared for the jolt of undiluted power that crashes through him, damn near lifting him off the bed. He arches back against Sam, hand scrabbling for his brother's, and it doesn't hurt, not really, but it feels so… _wild_… and Dean has to hold onto something, has to anchor himself to someone so he doesn't go flying into space.

Sam's fingers curl into Dean's, squeezing tight, and he slides his other arm around Dean's torso, pulling him back roughly.

Dean's body is singing with Castiel's Grace, humming and throbbing as something as hot and bright as lightning courses through him. There's no pain, no pressure in his lungs and suddenly he breathes deep and easy for what feels like the first time in years. Pinwheels of light burst and spin behind his eyelids, a crazy kaleidoscope of color, and Dean feels a laugh bubble up in his throat.

"Dean," Cas says, hand still clamped over his shoulder, hanging on for dear life. Cas is panting, and Dean can feel the quick, rasping breaths on his face, ghosting over his lips. He opens his eyes and Cas is right there, eyes shut tight, a look somewhere between total anguish and all-consuming ecstasy contorting his features.

"Cas," Dean whispers back, dazzled all over again when Cas opens his eyes and meets his gaze, fierce and smoldering.

Sam's arm tightens around him, and he nudges his nose into the juncture where Dean's jaw meets his neck. "You okay?" he asks, voice rough and jagged like shards of glass.

"Yeah," Dean says, bucking up as another surge of Grace sizzles through him, setting every nerve in his body alight. It's the most intense pleasure he's ever experienced, so close to pain it's practically indistinguishable, so fucking _good _it's unbearable.

Dean whimpers, head dropping back onto Sam's shoulder again, as Cas presses even closer. His fingers are branding Dean all over again, burning into his skin and deeper, all through him, until Dean can feel him in every cell. He wants more, _needs _more, but he doesn't know how to ask - doesn't even know what he's asking _for_.

"Please," he whispers anyway, turning his face into Sam's neck, breathing in the scent that reminds him of everything good he's ever had in his life, but it's still not enough.

"Okay, Dean," Sam whispers, lips pressed lightly against Dean's forehead. "It's okay. We've got you." Dean doesn't miss the way Sam says _we_, and the word sends a shock through him almost as intense as Cas's Grace. _We_.

"Cas?" Dean says, not sure what he's asking, though there are a million questions, a million moments of potential, in just that one word, one name.

Cas's grip on his shoulder doesn't lessen, but he does raise his other hand to Dean's chest, laying it gently over his heart. "I'm here, Dean."

"I need…" Dean begins, then trails off, flushing furiously, because suddenly, he's very, _very _aware of exactly what it is he needs. Embarrassed, Dean shifts his hips around, knowing Sam and Cas can't have missed the way his boxers are pulled taut over his straining erection.

It takes him a moment to realize there's an answering hardness pressed up against the small of his back, Sam's hips rocking into him as he arches and writhes.

"It's the Grace," Cas says raggedly, and Dean is too afraid, too raw, to open his eyes and look at him. "The energy is repairing all the damaged tissue." And then, voice full of awe, "It's working."

"You're tellin' me," Dean gasps, and Sam's hand finds its way under his shirt, fingers splayed over the jumping muscles of his belly. "Jesus Christ, Sam," he whispers, eyes scrunched up tight. "Feels so…"

"So what?" Sam asks, hint of a smile in his voice, and Dean laughs.

"Fuckin' amazing," he says, turning his face up to press a kiss against Sam's jaw.

"Yeah?"

"It'd feel even better if your hand was about three inches lower," he says, voice low and laden with sex. The grip on his shoulder gets painfully tight, and Dean remembers he and Sam are not alone.

His eyes fly open, fearing the judgment, the disgust he'll see on Cas's face, but when he looks, there's only want there, only the same desperate need Dean himself feels. He watches as Cas watches him, and then flicks his gaze over Dean's shoulder and up to Sam. Cas is breathing hard, mouth open, and there's a row of teeth marks pressed into his bottom lip where he's bitten it.

Dean reaches out, swiping his thumb over the indentation once, twice, then settling in the dip above his chin. Cas finally lets his hand slip from Dean's shoulder, and while some of the fireworks fade, Dean can still feel the energy pulsing through him.

He lifts his head from Sam's shoulder, leaning forward as he guides Cas slowly closer. He doesn't close his eyes when their lips brush, and neither does Cas. Behind him, Sam groans, a low rumble that Dean feels more than hears, reverberating through every inch of him.

Cas doesn't turn their contact into a kiss, and Dean doesn't push him. He waits there, sharing Cas's breath, eyelids at half-mast, a languid sort of calm rolling over him like a summer evening on the front porch. He feels… content. At peace. Cas is right there, and while he isn't giving much, he isn't running away, either, and that in itself is a small victory. He's got Sam at his back, where he's always been meant to be, and he feels like, for this moment in time, however brief it is, the world is actually right.

Then, with a muffled gasp, Cas surges forward, sealing his mouth over Dean's, so close Dean can feel the flutter of Cas's eyelashes against his cheek. It's clumsy, in the beginning, Cas's nose pressed uncomfortably into Dean's, his lips warm and pliant but unmoving, uncertain.

Dean laughs into Cas's mouth, then tilts his head to the side, angling closer. He slides his tongue between Cas's lips, into all that slick wet heat, and Cas groans. Behind him, Sam raises his hand and strokes Dean's neck with the barest brush of his fingertips, his breath hot at Dean's nape.

It doesn't really occur to Dean what's happening, or what's getting ready to happen, at least not enough to put a name to it. He only knows that the two people he cares about most in the world are here with him, and beyond that, everything else gets a little hazy. Repercussions, consequences don't exist in his world right now. There is only this, only this moment, and Dean'll be damned if he lets it get away from him.

When Sam slips a hand under the waistband of his boxers, he doesn't bother to protest. His mouth is too busy with Cas, and his brain is on an extended vacation. Nothing exists for Dean but feeling, sensation, like the way Cas's tongue is almost reverent when it brushes over his teeth, or the way his chest tightens when Sam whispers his name like a prayer.

"You okay?" Sam asks then, low and husky, and Dean nods, knowing what Sam is really asking. He reaches over Dean's shoulder then, hand lighting on Cas's cheek, and Cas looks up at him, innocent and debauched and fucking gorgeous. "_You_?" Sam asks, and Cas hesitates for only the briefest moment before nodding. A flood of relief surges through Dean's chest, and he smiles, wondering if this is what happiness, contentment feels like.

Sam's mouth is on his ear then, sucking and nipping playfully at the lobe, while his hand teases Dean beneath a thin layer of cotton. "Don't move," he says softly, sliding his leg around Dean and pulling himself off the bed.

Dean's back is cold, and he whimpers a protest that's forgotten the moment Cas's lips move to his throat, trailing a line of fire from his chin to his collarbone. He arches back, gasping and nearly coming up off the bed, scrambling forward to put as little distance between himself and Cas as possible.

"Told you not to move," Sam teases, tweaking his ear, and Dean looks up at him through hooded eyes, head tossed back as Cas explores.

"You blame me?" Dean asks, hissing when Cas bites down on the tender flesh just below his jugular.

Sam's eyes go dark. "Don't blame either of you," he says, then fumbles with his fly, pushing his jeans down over his hips and kicking them aside.

Dean keeps Sam in his peripheral, watching as he pulls his shirt up over his head and then tugs down his boxers, reaching down to stroke himself almost lazily as Cas devours every inch of Dean's flesh he can reach.

Sam smiles when he catches Dean watching, all sex and wickedness, his hand speeding up to match the thrust of his hips. Dean yanks Cas up, slamming their lips together, never taking his eyes away from Sam as his hands fumble for Cas's belt.

"Off," he growls, and though he's talking to Cas, he sees Sam's smirk widen, hears the gasp when Sam swipes his thumb over the slit of his cock.

Cas reaches down to help, and then he's undoing his pants while Dean starts unbuttoning his shirt - _Dean's _shirt - frantically, wanting to see all those miles of pale white skin, and wanting to see them _now_.

Dean feels like an island in a cold sea when Cas stands up to slide his pants down his legs, alone on an expanse of bed that suddenly seems impossibly immense. But then Sam is crawling behind him again, those strong legs wrapped around him, bare and warm through his cotton-clad hips.

Sam tugs the hem of Dean's tank top, and he raises his arms, helping Sam get it off, growling a little when the damn thing blocks his view of Cas, standing almost entirely naked at the foot of the bed. Sam chuckles, tossing the shirt to floor to join his own, then hooks his thumbs in the elastic of Dean's boxers, palming his ass as Dean lifts his hips so Sam can slide them down.

Sam's arms go around him then, just holding him, skin-to-skin, Sam's heart beating into Dean's shoulder, strong and steady. Cas, still standing at the edge of the bed, has his hands at his waist, fingers curled over the top of his shorts, watching Dean and Sam with a look that encompasses so many emotions - envy, need, affection, want - and then Dean reaches out a hand, just one beckoning finger, and Cas is stripping his boxers off and crawling onto the bed in the same breath, no more questions, no more fear.

For many moments, long ones, too many for Dean to count, there is only this: lips speaking without words, tongues tangling in a dance that is both achingly familiar and dizzyingly new, teeth biting, exploring, claiming… and Dean at the center of it, loved and loving, giving and given.

Sam pushes him up a lifetime later, so they're both on their knees on the mattress, Sam's heavy, hot cock aligning near-perfectly with the crease of Dean's ass. Cas sits back on his heels, watching with eyes black and liquid as Sam moves against Dean, his hand unerringly skimming around Dean's side and down, straight to his cock, gripping tight and sure.

Dean arches back with a cry, sparing just a single thought as to how Sam seems to know his body better than even he does, and then it fizzles away, consumed and smothered by Sam's hand and Sam's touch and Sam's dick pressed just right, just _there_, and it's almost everything Dean needs.

But almost isn't quite _enough_, and _enough _is sitting just inches away, right within his reach, right there for him to claim.

He tugs Castiel up just as Sam pushes in the first finger, slick with sweat and spit, and he bows forward, pressing his face into Cas's shoulder. Cas's hands are on his arms, gripping tight as Dean sinks his teeth into soft, yielding flesh, tasting salt and soap and the laundry detergent they ganked at the last hotel.

Cas's hands are on his chest then, pushing away, and Dean leans back, worried.

"You okay?" he asks, gruff and abrupt, like he doesn't really give a flying fuck if Cas is okay, and he gentles the tone with a look of concern.

Cas nods, eyes roaming Dean's torso. Sam has two fingers inside him now, a delicious burn slowly stretching him wider and wider, Sam's other hand curled around his cock, setting a rhythm that is achingly slow. Dean is half-delirious from the sensation of it all, but he doesn't miss the look on Cas's face when the former angel bats Sam's hand away, staring down at Dean with the self-satisfied awe of an artist seeing his completed masterpiece for the first time.

"Dean, I want to…" Cas says, licking his lips. Dean traces the movement with his gaze, watching that sinful tongue, knowing he's catalogued the taste and feel and shape of those lips with his own. Cas's eyes dart down, wide and painfully blue, and then he looks quickly back at Dean's mouth.

"You don't have to," Dean says, catching his meaning, but then Sam's fingers find that spot, deep inside, and he's hissing and thrusting forward, and dammit, Cas _does _have to, he really does.

"Want to," Cas murmurs, so soft Dean can only tell what he's saying by watching his lips. Slowly, tentatively, Cas reaches out a hand, running it lightly up Dean's thigh, trailing a single finger down the shaft, watching in wonder as Dean twitches at the touch.

"Wait," Sam says, closing a hand around Cas's wrist, pulling him gently away. "Give me just a minute, Cas, okay?"

Cas nods, leaning back without question, giving them space. Something about that makes Dean's heart lurch, and he isn't sure what it is, but he's not ready to think about it right now. He can't think about anything right now, because Sam is bending him forward, spreading him open and Dean hears him spit into his hand, feels him press in, big and hot and painful and fucking fantastic, filling Dean, tearing him apart and putting him back together again in the space of a single breath.

Cas watches as Sam sits back on his heels, thighs trembling, pulling Dean with him.

"Okay, baby?" he says into Dean's ear, and Dean nods, head bowed forward, cock leaking and wet against his stomach.

Sam sets the rhythm, slow and sinful, pushing Dean up and pulling him back down again, then holding him up while he thrusts shallowly in and out. Dean pants, aching for more, and his eyes lock with Cas's, every need, every desire he feels reflected there and multiplied.

Cas surges forward, clumsy again as he presses a messy kiss to Dean's mouth before sinking onto his stomach, arms braced on either side of Dean's knees. There's no finesse, no grand seduction, but when his lips close around Dean's cock, Dean finally knows what heaven's like. No angels, no harps, no happy memories; just heat and wet and tongue and teeth, and Cas's mouth is a symphony around him, playing him like a concerto.

Dean arches back into Sam and then forward into Cas, surrounded and filled and whole. Sam slips a hand onto his thigh, fingers moving through a tangle of soft hair over sinewy muscle, and then Cas's hand creeps up too, sliding over Sam's, and Dean finally knows what it's like to be complete.

Sam comes first, crying out sharply into the space between Dean's shoulder blades, one hand biting into Dean's hip while the other curls around Cas's fingers. Cas moans, sending shivers of vibration up Dean's cock, and Dean thrusts a hand into Cas's thick dark hair, tugging a warning, but Cas doesn't pull away, just sucks a little harder, moves a little faster, and Dean's world is spinning, swaying, shaking apart until there's nothing left but molecules, blown far and wide, scattered across the universe that exists in this room, on this bed.

Cas swallows, pulling away with a soft pop and licking his lips with a smile that is entirely too smug. Dean can't be bothered to care, though, boneless and numb, slumped against Sam's chest, Cas's nose nuzzling the inside of his thigh.

Sam drops a kiss on his shoulder, and then reaches around him to card his fingers through Cas's hair for a fleeting moment. He climbs out of the bed then, and Dean is cold again, but the feeling of aloneness is gone.

He looks down at Cas, runs the back of a finger over his cheek, and is suddenly filled with the certainty that he won't ever feel alone again.

*oOo*

Sam's legs are shaking as he crosses the room, muscles burning pleasantly, a feeling low in his belly that's empty and full all at the same time. He picks up his clothing from the floor and props himself against the wall for support, standing there for a moment in still silence, t-shirt and jeans clutched against his stomach as he catches his breath.

Dean and Cas are making their way off the bed, standing up tremulously awkward, like newborn colts. He watches as Dean turns to Cas, a look on his face unlike any Sam has seen before, and he struggles to put a name to it.

Dean's lips stretch into a smile, rare and precious, and Cas returns it with one of his own, equally unusual and equally stunning. Sam watches as Dean lifts a hand to Cas's face, brushing his fingers over the strong cheekbones with a wonder that is innocent and sensual at the same time.

"Cas," Dean breathes, and it's like he's seeing the former angel for the very first time. Sam thinks to himself that maybe he is.

Cas ducks his head away, almost shy, but Dean keeps his hand firm on Cas's chin, holding him steady, forcing Cas to meet his eyes. And it strikes Sam then, this mysterious emotion playing over Dean's features, filling his eyes and hovering on his lips like something he wants to say but can't.

Relief.

It hits Sam hard, the realization. He's never seen Dean look like that, never _made _Dean look like that.

But Cas can.

It isn't about making Dean happy, or giving him what he wants, or even fulfilling him sexually. It's about taking all the shit that's been piled on him since he was kid and giving him a damn break. It's about sharing his burdens, sharing his fears, sharing his secrets and his successes and his failures.

It's about making Dean smile. Getting him to let loose and forget all the horror they've seen, all the horror they've _caused_. No one has ever been able to give that to Dean, not even him.

Until now.

It's strange, Sam thinks, that it doesn't hurt more, to recognize this, to accept it. Not that it doesn't hurt at all, because it does, aching and deep in a place that physical pain can never reach.

He's drawn out of his thoughts by a soft whisper across the room, and he can't hear what's been said, but the gentle flush on Cas's cheeks is enough to tell him what he's missed.

"You didn't…" Dean says, trailing a hand down Cas's chest, lingering just under his belly button.

"It's okay," Cas replies, suddenly shy, looking bashfully down at the floor. Sam thinks he gets what Dean sees in him, all that innocence and ferocity and beauty bound up in one package.

"No," Dean says, hands on Cas's shoulder, pushing him down so that he's sitting on the edge of the mattress. "It isn't."

Sam probably shouldn't be watching. He knows this, tells himself over and over that this is a private moment, that this is something Dean and Cas ought to share without him, but he doesn't move, and they either don't remember he's there or don't care, and so he watches as Dean sinks down to his knees, moving into the vee of Cas's legs, watches as Dean licks a trail up Cas's hard, leaking cock before taking it fully in his mouth, watches as Cas rolls his head back, gasping Dean's name.

Sam feels his own cock stirring back to life, a little slow, a little less urgent, but still as achingly amazing as before. He touches himself as he watches Dean suck Cas off, leaning lazily against the wall, eyes half-closed and heavy.

Cas's hands tangle in Dean's hair, and his hips are thrusting forward into that perfect mouth. Cas sighs and pants, soft little noises that make Dean moan and go straight to Sam's cock.

Sam walks toward them slowly, stroking himself back to full hardness, not wanting to intrude, but not yet ready to give up being a part of this. Dean looks up at him as he approaches, gives him a little nod, and reaches a hand around to the back of his knee.

It's an intimate gesture, and it touches something deep inside Sam. He continues moving his hand up and down, slow and easy, as Dean slides his hand up his thigh and beyond. The progress halts, though, just as Dean reaches the curve of his ass.

Sam whimpers, but Dean just looks up at him, smirking around a mouthful of Cas, and then runs that same hand up Cas's stomach and chest, up his neck and over his chin, pushing two fingers into his mouth.

Cas sucks them in, moaning around them, and Sam feels his excitement quicken in his belly. A long moment later, Dean slides them out, repositioning his hand under Sam's ass, nudging one finger up and into that sweet spot that only he knows, pressing into Sam easy and sure.

Sam gasps out Dean's name, hand tightening around his cock, still too sensitive to let go completely, but too turned on to wait. He looks down just in time to catch Cas's gaze, and he whispers his name, too, soft and almost respectful.

Dean's finger moves in and out with steady thrusts, keeping time with his mouth, working over Cas. Sam inches even closer, so close the head of his cock is nearly brushing Dean's cheek. Cas's hand is on his thigh then, squeezing tight and then sliding into the space between Sam's legs, moving up to cup his balls, rolling them gently between his fingers.

Sam comes with a stifled cry, nowhere near as hard as before but just as powerful, dribbling whatever's left in him onto Cas's hand and smearing it along the side of Dean's face.

Cas thrusts into Dean's mouth twice more, hard and unforgiving, and Dean takes it, swallowing when Cas grips the back of his head and comes down his throat. Sam watches, heart racing even though his eyes are heavy and his knees are ready to buckle, as Dean pulls away, smiling. He wipes away what Sam has left on his cheek with his thumb, then sucks into his mouth, licking it away.

Cas sits back on the bed, looking dazed and wide-eyed and pretty fucking adorable, if Sam is honest with himself. He leans down, takes Cas's chin in his hand, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. There's a whole world of sentiment in that one brief kiss, a lifetime of communication, of pleas and warnings, threats and requests, and Sam knows by the look on Cas's face when he pulls away that Cas got the message, loud and clear.

Dean looks up expectantly, still on his knees, and Sam leans down even farther, capturing his lips in a kiss that is not so chaste, that communicates only Sam's happiness, only his approval.

He pulls away, a little breathless, a little sad, and he tugs on his clothes as Dean and Cas watch. He shuts the door behind him, and it sounds final. What it doesn't sound like, though, is the end.


End file.
